Secrets
by PhantomPenguin
Summary: Everybody has a secret. A secret is a powerful tool, capable of both harm and good; this is why we strive to keep them hidden. Like the rest of the world, Paton Yewbeam has his share of secrets. Here are ten, and how they changed his life.
1. Sisters and Hate

**Disclaimer: The world and characters of Charlie Bone are not mine, nor will they ever be.**

Oh, here I go again with my Paton-centric stories... I just can't help myself! Anyway, I do intend for this to be an actual, multi-chapter story (it's a sign of the apocalypse!), and I should have chapters out every week or two. Each chapter will feature a different secret of Paton's that has affected his life in one way or another.

As usual, I am a review addict, so any comments are greatly appreciated. Read and enjoy, mes amis!

* * *

Everybody has a secret. Just like the hair on your head, secrets are there, hovering around you, impairing your vision, and growing longer by the month. And, just like hair, each secret is a different color. Blonde, brown, black—every secret has a shade. Secrets can be black and life-altering, dark deeds kept from ever seeing the light of day. They can be raw and red and painful, or a cheerful, bright, amusing blonde. Depending on the secret, a person's life can change.

These secrets sit locked away behind years of silence, buried under layers of denial and a refusal to face reality. Sometimes, against our will, they slip out, escape their chains and burst free to wreak their havoc upon the world; sometimes, they remained cloistered away within our minds, never to see the light of day. A secret is a promise a person makes to him or herself, a solemn vow to retain knowledge-personal or otherwise-that he or she does not wish to share.

Secrets can be sordid, a recollection of uncomfortable affairs and errors. They can be dark and agonizing, sharp knives whose points drive deeper when twisted. They can cut, stinging like a whip cracking across your exposed back. They can bruise, snapping bones and emotions like twigs.

Secrets can also be trivial, little blurbs of information or opinion that we would simply rather keep from common knowledge. They can incite moments of hilarity, their revelation sparking a round of good-natured teasing and amusement. They can inform, give an interested party an additional detail regarding friends or family.

A secret is a powerful tool, capable of good or evil. Anyone can use a secret, but only a select few can keep ithidden. In the wrong hands, even the smallest of secrets may very well prove deadly. This is why we fight, tooth and nail, to keep our secrets safe. This is why we strive to remain silent, even when we know the battle may very well be lost.

This is why we keep secrets in the first place.

Like the rest of the world, Paton Yewbeam has his share of secrets. Here are ten, and how they changed his life.

_Secret One: Of all his sisters, Venetia was the only one he never loved._

When Paton was born, Venetia was five. She adored being the baby of the family, and was quite put out when she realized this squalling new arrival had usurped her position within the familial hierarchy. She was a pampered child, justifiably doted on by her parents and older sisters. She never wanted for anything, be it attention, toys, or time. Venetia thrived upon the attention, blossomed into an intelligent child who loved to be loved. Upon the arrival of her dark-haired, infant brother, though, Venetia suddenly found herself pushed to the outskirts of the attention bubble. Now, she looked in on its new center-her baby brother, Paton.

Venetia imagined herself forgotten, created a world in which she was next to nothing to her parents. Her young brain took the reversal in her situation and ran with it, unable to understand that babies in general, be they Patons or Grizeldas or Venetias, generally garner more attention than older children. She held Paton personally accountable, her five-year-old logic placing all of the blame on her brother.

In return for Paton's popularity, Venetia took it upon herself to make his life a living hell.

While Grizelda, Eustacia, and Lucretia cooed over the boy who could be the next endowed Yewbeam, Venetia stole his belongings, destroyed his toys, and ripped his books to shreds.

When Paton went to his parents, tears streaming down his cheeks, Venetia whistled and looked the other way; _she _certainly hadn't done anything. The little viper must have broken his own things. When it was just the two of them, as it often was when the older ones went off to tend their own matters, he was reduced to "The Brat," the baby brother Venetia never asked for.

One day, when he was five and Venetia ten, following a particularly subtle demolition of his favorite book, Paton mustered up enough courage to confront her. "Why do you hate me?" he cried, unable to comprehend such blatant malevolence. He sniffled, running a hand over his face and smearing the tears away. His dark liquid eyes looked up at his sister, waiting for her to explain it all away.

Venetia smiled a simpering smile and flicked the back of his head so hard that he yelped. "I don't hate you," she said, lying through her teeth. She _did _hate him, hated him more than anything else in the world. At least he wasn't endowed; she still had _that _her trump card. Even so, as she turned away, her dislike overcame her and she paused, contemplating his question once more.

"I don't hate you, Paton," she repeated slowly, tilting her head to consider the useless lump that constituted her brother. "I _loathe _you."

When Paton turned seven and discovered his endowment, he saw Venetia's behavior take a turn for the worse, if such a thing were possible. Her whole world came crashing down around her when Paton proved to the world that he, too, was endowed-that he, too, was _special_.

Paton didn't understand her behavior; he hated his endowment. He couldn't go out in public; at night, he was confined to whatever rooms had candles. His friends did not understand him anymore, nor he them. He was virtually an outcast, yet here sat Venetia, _jealous_ of him.

The worst of the early years occurred when Paton was still seven, barely two months after he discovered his endowment.

"Dad?" Paton crossed the threshold of the house, stepping into the darkened entryway. "Mom?" He peered through the gloom. He had been out all afternoon romping in the surf, and had expected his family to still be at home where he had left them after lunch.

"They've gone out." Venetia stood at the top of the stairs, hand resting imperiously on the banister as she glared down at her younger sibling.

Paton reeled in shock. They had gone out without him? They had abandoned him to Venetia?

"Why do you want them?" she mocked, hatred souring her voice. "Is widdle Paton afwaid of the dawk?" A malicious smile curled around the edges of her lips. "We can't have that, can we?"

A flip of the light switch beside her brought the overhead light to life, and nearly brought Paton's to an end. Caught unaware, and still too unaccustomed to his endowment to have honed his reflexes, Paton looked up in bemusement at the light. He realized what his sister had done only when it was too late. His aura overwhelmed the electricity, and the fragile bulb burst, raining glass down around him in a shimmering cloud.

Paton cried out in pain and alarm, flinching as beads of glass connected with his skin, the razor-sharp rain ripping open his skin with frightening ease.

"Paton?" his mother's voice rang through the house, taught with alarm; Venetia, it seemed, had been lying. "Paton, where are you?" His mother ran through the kitchen door and drew up short as she caught sight of her son standing amid the gleaming sea of glass, its waters stained red with his blood.

Paton's only acute memory from that hazy day of explosive agony was looking up at the stairs through the bloody mask that coated his face and seeing his sister doubled over at the waist, face contorted into an expression of horrible amusement and elation.

In that moment, he realized Venetia's hatred was reciprocated.

When Paton heard about Lyell's death, he knew Venetia had done it. By then he and his other sisters had no lost love between them, and while he knew they were certainly capable of such a heinous act, he knew that the actual deed had been Venetia's doing. Only she was cunning enough, only she was cruel enough to murder her nephew.

All through the eulogy, he glared at the smug form seated two rows ahead. The air around him crackled tangibly with tension, and he clenched his fists, muscles tensing as he turned over the events of the past few days. Did she even _know _the pain she was causing.

Sensing his anger, Venetia turned, smiled, and gave a wave—a brief little flutter of the fingers that struck him as soundly as a blow. She knew.

When Paton was forty-six, Venetia ran him over.

He never saw the driver's face, hidden as it was behind a wig and an overlarge steering wheel, but he knew that she was to blame. It had been miracle that he had survived at all, a fluke of fate that had left him battered and bleeding on the worn road rather than a flattened mess.

In the hospital, woozy with pain and medication, he forgot himself and allowed himself to show his opinion of Venetia, to reveal thoughts that had been churning in his mind, unspoken, for years—and to Charlie and Julia, no less.

"She hates me," he croaked, forcing the words out of his bruised chest and raw throat. He ached, felt trampled and run down.

Julia seized his hand, holding to her as if she intended never to release it. "Who, Paton?" she asked, clutching the hand like a lifeline. "Who hates you?"

Coughing and wincing at the pain such a simple exhalation evinced, Paton grimaced and sighed heavily. 'Venetia." Even the agony he was in did not mask the loathing that seeped into his voice. "She's hated me since I was born, and has been out to get me for nearly as long."

Julia drew back, horrified by the implications of his accusation. "Surely she couldn't have hated you as a _child_," she declared, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Surely she's…she's not the one who hit you, is she Paton?"

Paton drew back and shrugged as much as his bruises would allow. "I believe so," he confessed, "and if that is the case than her actions certainly speak for themselves." A trace of bitterness sat on his tongue, tainting his words with its tang.

Charlie spoke up for the first time. 'That's why you're so much _better_ than they are, Uncle P!" he declared, eyes blazing with righteous enthusiasm. "No matter what she does to you, you never lower yourself to her level. _You _never hate." He smiled down at Paton, supremely confident in his unyielding differentiation between right and wrong.

For that, Paton had no answer.

When Paton's relationship with Julia progressed into the realm of reality, he swore up and down to himself that he would keep her free of family affairs. She would remain safe on the sidelines, and would be free from harm—safe from Venetia and the disasters that followed her.

He should have known better.

Running into the bookshop, legs on autopilot, his heart pumping and mind churning, Paton was mad with grief and rage. He was at a loss, destroyed by the knowledge that Julia was dying—maybe dead—because of Venetia. She had finally gotten her revenge, in the most final, devastating way possible.

With the belt that wrapped around Julia's waist, constricting the life from her, Venetia was killing Paton as well, the same as if she had attacked him outright.

This was the day Paton let his hatred and anger consume him, the day he made his peace with the mutual loathing he and Venetia entertained. He faced his fear and hatred of his sister.

"Julia..." He knelt by her side, pressed her cold fingers to his lips. He watched, not daring to hope, as Charlie leveled the wand at the belt and blasted it to smithereens. His heart nearly burst with relief as Julia heaved a great gasp and sat up, pale and wan but very much alive.

In that moment, Paton knew what he had to do.

He had to confront his sister and that miserable old hag she had brought with her; he had to face Venetia.

In the moments following Yolanda's death, as he watched Venetia's house burn to the ground, consumed by blazing flames that _he _had caused, Paton knew peace. He was free from all the pent-up anger, the rage and hatred that he had subdued for most of his life. Now it was liberated, released from his psyche upon the world.

In that moment, Paton became a new person. He no longer hated Venetia; he was no longer burdened by guilt that told him he owed her love regardless of his emotions, no longer weighed down by years of suppressed abhorrence. He knew where they stood, and he was at peace with that.

He was a free man.

* * *

Man have I missed writing! School forced me to take a hiatus for a few months, but I am back in business now. So, a few more details about this fic: I intend for it to be around ten chapters, with each chapter introducing and exploring a new secret about Paton. The secrets are already decided, so giving me suggestions will not affect the story (though I love hearing other people's ideas, so go ahead and hit me with them).

I am really excited about the concept of this story; hopefully, you are as well.

As always, reviews are the only way I can know what you like/dislike, and the only way I can tell that anyone is actually reading my writing. So...please review!


	2. Money and Motions

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine, unfortunately.

I'm not feeling very verbose at the moment, so I shall simply say read, enjoy, and review.

* * *

_Secret Two: He has more money than he knows what to do with._

Not that he hasn't tried, of course. Shortly after Paton acquired his wealth (through a combination of his inheritance and a few well-timed investments) he did what any self-respecting bibliophile would do—he went on a book-buying binge. However, countless tomes and a mere fraction of his fortune later, as he looked at his balance and failed to see any sort of dent, he gave up the youthful drive to spend; it wasn't in him to frivolously toss aside such larges amounts of money.

Instead, Paton began dividing his money, investing some and distributing the rest in savings. He just wasn't a "rich" type of person—a quality that he bore with pride.

He dressed and ate well, but as far as lodgings, "culture," and society were concerned, he kept himself relatively low on the totem pole. He had never seen the importance of using money as an excuse to be a snob. His parents had been well off, so he had never known poverty; however, he was no stranger to modesty, and had long since lived with rather than above the basic standards of society. So, following university, Paton rented a shabby little apartment on the city's outskirts, away from the hustle and bustle of the well-lit downtown, and got a part-time job with a nearby library. He kept himself accustomed to work; he needed something to supplement his research, something else to occupy his time.

His money did not sit idle, though; Paton was philanthropic from the beginning, donating sums here and there to various individuals and groups throughout the city. Though he had never been financially needy, he understood what it was like to lack the necessities for survival—only where other's necessities consisted of food and shelter, his were companionship and acceptance. Yes, Paton knew quite well what it felt like to want.

Therefore, when he came into his money, he was not stingy when it came to doing what he could to help.

An anonymous donation here, a generous tip there—soon his money was scattered liberally around the city. Easing the financial burdens of others was a way for Paton's fortune to be useful—a way for _Paton_ to be useful.

What set him apart from all the other patrons and benefactors who graced the block was his determination to remain anonymous. He wanted no thank yous, no gratitude or promises of repayment. He gave his money away because he felt it was the only way he could help, the only way he could make a difference—a belief that made him feel more of a coward than ever. He loathed himself for being unable to get out there and physically be of assistance, be it against poverty or the Bloor dynasty.

When Lyell died, Amy and Charlie had nothing; somehow, Lyell's money disappeared into an unknown, inaccessible vault, gone as quickly as it had arrived. The Yewbeam sisters put their heads together and formed a plan: they would purchase a house, and Charlie and Amy could come and live in it with Grizelda. In their mind, the plan was infallible: not only would Amy be indebted to them for the rest of their lives, but Charlie and his potential endowment would be well within their watchful sight.

Unable to stand and watch the wife and son of his best friend forced into living the rest of their lives indebted to his horrible sisters, Paton decided to step in.

"You want to _what_?" Grizelda's voice rose, escalating into a shriek. She could not believe her ears, and went well out of her way to make sure everyone within a five foot radius heard her disbelief.

Paton stared down his nose at her. "You heard me. I want to co-sign with you on the house. I'll pay my half, you pay yours." He shifted his weight slightly, marveling at the power that taking a stand made him feel. Perhaps his head had been down for too long. "And, since I'll be part-owner, I'll take one of the rooms as my own. I've been needing to relocate anyway."

His sister spluttered incomprehensively for a moment, unable to come up with the words to formulate a response. Finally, she managed to spit out a discernable, "Why?" The word was little more than a hiss, spitting out from lips stiff with anger. She flung her braid behind her head, stationing her hands firmly on her hips.

Paton refused to be intimidated, and rather than reveal his true motivation, he gave a noncommittal shrug and looked down at Grizelda through a feigned mask of boredom. "I miss having a home," he said. "I would rather have a residence with people I know than one with people I don't, and this seems the easiest way to go about it."

This brought about another fit of sputtering speech. "And how," Grizelda finally asked, collecting her thoughts, "do you intend to pay for the house?" She raised one white eyebrow, convinced she had trumped her brother. Neither she nor her sisters had any notion of the funds he had stashed away; he had worked quite hard to keep his fortune hidden from his sisters' greed.

Paton frowned. "That is none of your business," he said crisply, retrieving his coat from the couch where he had flung it. "All you need to know is that I have a sufficient amount of money, and I will see you at the signing." He donned his coat and nodded sharply at his sister. "Good day, Grizelda."

The following month saw quite a motley assortment of people gathered outside Number 9 Filbert Street. There were Amy and Charlie, Amy bearing Charlie in one arm and a large suitcase with all their worldly possessions in the other. There were the Yewbeam sisters, Grizelda with her boxes of belongings, the other three clustered around her, staking out their claim on the house with their intimidating glares and mere presence. There was Maisie, Amy's mother who had nowhere else to go, and who entered the household approved by Grizelda for the sole reason that she was the only one able and willing to cook edible food.

Finally, there was Paton.

He stood in the street, staring up at the house that half-belonged to him, boxes of belongings piled beside him and wondering what on earth had possessed him to do this. He happened to glance over at his great-nephew and Amy, and then he remembered, his motivation flooding back into him full force.

He was buying this house for Charlie and Amy. They needed some sort of buffer between themselves and his sisters, a barrier to shield them from the worst of the Yewbeam sisters—for now, Paton would be that buffer.

As long as his family needed him, he would be there.

When Amy's funds ran short, Paton always found a way to ensure she had a sufficient amount of money. He never gave it to her directly, as there was a mutual understanding that such a blatant act of philanthropy would be an insult to both their prides.

Instead, he found increasingly creative methods of directing supplemental incomes her way. One week, he would bribe her boss to exponentially increase her paycheck; the next, she would put her hand in her coat pocket to fish for that single elusive coin, only to pull out an assortment of bills.

Amy never asked Paton about the money, and Paton never told her.

What mattered to both of them was Charlie, and Charlie, like any growing boy, needed more food and clothes and entertainment than Amy's meager salary could provide. Paton made his contribution almost without thought. He loved Charlie dearly; to see the poor boy needing anything was more than he could bear.

When Charlie entered Bloors, Paton had every intention of paying his nephew's tuition. The fact that his sisters stepped in instead came as a bit of a shock, but then he realized that as long as Charlie was at Bloors, they could keep an even better watch on him than at home.

Desperate to contribute, Paton found other ways to help. He took Amy to the store and bought Charlie new clothes and school supplies. He paid for Charlie's books and meal plans, funded his instrument purchase and repairs; his sisters' generosity extended only so far as basic tuition, and he would not have Charlie lack anything that might be a necessity for the beginning Bloors student .

Charlie, of course, knew nothing of this, for Paton was subtle in his craft. Paton saw it the least he could do for the boy he had come to love like a son.

When Charlie introduced Paton to Julia Ingledew, Paton found new use for his money. Under the pretense of book shopping, he visited Ingledew's again and again, developing his rapport with the shop's beautiful, intelligent owner. Each visit saw him leave with a distracted smile at his lips and a heavy, worn book tucked neatly under his arm.

"Paton," Julia remarked late one afternoon as she rung up yet another worn volume, "What do you do with all of these books?" She settled his most recent purchase at the top of the stack he was taking home to borrow and shot him a quizzical look across the counter.

Surprised, Paton responded almost automatically, "I read them, of course." The pink tinge spreading across his face ruined the wounded pride that insinuated itself in his voice, giving away his game before he had even the slightest chance to disguise it.

Since Julia could read him like an open book by this point, she could practically feel the lie oozing from his pores. "All of them?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow. "That must keep you busy." She knew quite well that he spent far too much time at the bookshop to have read every book he took home cover to cover.

His cheeks flushed a darker pink. "Er, well…" he searched for an explanation.

Julia laughed and pushed the stack of books toward him. "Don't tax yourself, Paton," she teased. "It's really none of my business." She hesitated, weighing her next words, then shrugged and decided to speak. "Actually, I've been rather grateful for your purchases," she confessed, shoving an irritating strand of hair out of her eyes. "You've been keeping me in business lately; apparently the book market hasn't been well."

Paton accepted the books with a blush and went on his way, determined that Ingledew's would never lose his patronage.

When Paton decided to propose, he faced the quandary of how much to spend on the ring. Nearly unlimited resources leave a man with a lot of decisions to make, and Paton loathed that he had to narrow his focus to a specific, unknown amount.

Like most women, Julia had a love of fine jewelry, so a gaudy, inexpensive ring was out of the question; however, Julia was also practical and very far from flashy, and Paton knew that she would be furious if he spent too much on a ring. His dilemma, then, was what constituted "too much". How could he be certain that the ring he chose would not offend Julia with its price? He had to be certain his ring would walk the tightrope between elegant and expensive, that it would be beautiful and impressive without being opulent.

Paton searched long and hard for the perfect ring, entering jewelry store after jewelry store and disregarding every proffered piece. Either the ring was too plain, or it was too expensive. Finally, he decided he'd had enough.

"I don't know what to do," he mumbled to his tea late one night. He sat alone in the kitchen of Number 9, mug cradled in his hands and a pensive look on his face. "I've been to every jewelry store in town and haven't found the right ring."

He stared at the wall, lost in thought. There had to some solution he had yet to consider; if only it would come to him. The irony of his situation his him in full, and he chuckled around his mouthful of tea. He had all this money and could buy the most lavish engagement ring a woman could want, yet he could barely spend any of it because Julia would refuse to accept anything she deemed beyond her worth.

Paton shook his head. Julia deserved the best ring money could buy, but he knew she would not see things the same way should he seek it out. What he needed was an elegant ring, one that would capture Julia's inner and outer beauty without offending her with its price.

Paton's smile as the answer came to him nearly stretched from one end of the kitchen to the other. Of _course_. It was so simple; he didn't know why he hadn't seen it before.

He would give her his mother's ring.

When the day came that Paton actually proposed, he was a nervous wreck. What if she said no? What if she said _yes? _What if his gamble was wrong and she _did _want a flashy ring.

He gave his head a quick mental shake, re-establishing his determination. Time for action, not hesitation. His hand shook as he clicked open the delicate jewelry box. Nestled inside, his mother's ring sparkled in the late afternoon light.

"I know it's not new," he explained quickly, misinterpreting Julia's look of surprise, "but it was my mother's." When her open astonishment did not fade, he drew back his arm and tried to keep the disappointment from his face. "I…I can buy you a new one, if you'd like that instead."

Julia shook her head vehemently. "No! Paton, it's…it's perfect." Her face was filled with awe and appreciation for the elegant ring that sat between them. "In fact, it's too perfect; there is no way I can accept such a treasure."

The tension drained out of Paton. He plucked the ring from its cushion and took Julia's hand in his. "My dear, no ring is too great for you." He slid the ring onto her trembling finger. "I only hope this one will do you justice."

Julia smiled and turned her hand to capture his fingers. "Paton," she said, "I love it. No other ring—more expensive or otherwise—could take the place of your mother's." She took his other hand in hers and laid her head against his chest, tilting her head to look up at his face.

"In fact, it's priceless."

* * *

In case you hadn't noticed yet, I do love a sappy ending every now and then. I rather think Paton deserves it after all of the angst I've put him through over the years.

As always, reviews are love!


	3. Wishes and Stars

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

A bit later of an update than you were expecting, I know, but I've been slogging through end-of-the-year stuff with school. I have my final AP exam next Wednesday, though, and then I will be completely done! That's completely irrelevant as far as the story is concerned, but I'm too excited about that not to share it.

Oh, and for those reviewers who have raised questions about Paton's mother, here's the deal. He never hated her; when he was seven, his family visited Yewbeam Castle and Yolanda pushed her down the stairs and broke her neck. Paton and his father were devastated, and I thoroughly enjoy siphoning some of the lingering angst into my stories.

Anywho, here is chapter three! As always, read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

_Secret Three: He still believes in wishing upon a star_.

Paton knows it is childish and silly. He knows he is a grown man, and that grown-ups aren't supposed to have foolish hopes. He has wished for years, and he knows by now that nothing will ever come of it. He knows that the stars are simply blazing balls of gas in galaxies of their own, millions of light years; they are not fey lights with magical powers, not benevolent spirits watching over him and guiding his life.

He knows this, and knows it well. He knows it is foolish to hope and dream—but he does it anyway.

When he was young, he and his mother spent night after night laying out in the thick cushion of grass in the clearing just beyond the beach, the sweet smells of summer surrounding them in a sultry haze. Lying back, the grass spread out around her, Solange would direct her son's gaze to a particular star or constellation, tell him its name and story.

It wasn't a simple matter of dictating, however. Solange gave each star an identity, narrated a great tale loaded with such mythology and detail that it seemed to Paton he personally knew the night sky.

The stars became his friends, his companions on even the darkest of nights. They were a secret he and his mother shared, a bond that they had even as his four sisters overpowered him during the day for their parents' attention.

As young as he was, Paton knew that the stars were something that he shared with his mother, and his mother alone.

One night, when Paton was fast approaching his life-changing seventh year, he and his mother lay out in what he had come to know as their field, making the most of the early arrival of summer's warm embrace. The breeze was light and warm, sweeping across the ground and ruffling clothes and grass as it passed.

There was a pause in the conversation, as Paton, lulled by the crashing of the waves against the distant shore, dozed. He had long ago learned the soothing effect of the surf's sound, his subconscious assigning it to a tranquilizing position in his mind. Now, surrounded by surf and stars, it was all but impossible for him not to be completely at ease.

Solange twitched her mouth into a grin, gazing up at the stars above. "Make a wish, Paton," she coaxed, listening to the soft breathing of the small form beside her.

His mop of black hair flopped as he stirred from his trance, and he slowly shifted to look at his mother. "Why?" His face was a mask of sleepy puzzlement. They were just _stars_, after all. Regardless of how much fun he had learning about them, they couldn't _do _anything.

She smiled and rested her hand on top of his head, smoothing his dark locks out of his face. "Well, when you wish upon a star, sometimes your dreams come true."

Paton looked up at the sky, the star and moonlight gradually bringing him from his muddled state of drowsiness and illuminating the wonder that shone on his face. "Really?" His exclamation was a loud whisper, caught on the wind and borne gently through the air.

He recalled his lessons in science then and frowned, eyeing her skeptically. "How?" His stare was intense and suspicious. Stars were just stars, after all—flaming balls of gas miles and miles away, incapable of affecting even the remotest of occurrences on earth.

Solange hugged him close to her. "My little skeptic," she teased, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. "This is beyond science, mon petit," she explained. "There is a magic in the heavens that eludes reason. Think of every good event and person that you have ever known, and imagine them in the stars. They are with us in everything we do, chère, watching over us."

Paton weighed this carefully in his mind, mulling over his mother's words. Finally, the child in him won out, and the starlight lost itself in the wonderment that shone in his dark eyes. "They are?"

Solange nodded solemnly. "They are," she promised. "And even when you think these people that you know are gone, they are with you. They are in the stars."

This revelation, too, was methodically processed by Paton, conflicting with everything he had ever thought about life and death. On the fence, he bit his lip. "Will _you_ be with me?" he asked, looking up at her accusingly. "Even when _you_ are gone?" His eyes revealed the fear that she would deny this even as his face remained stoic.

Solange hugged her son to her side, relishing the rare opportunity to simply sit and hold him. "Always."

When Paton started Bloors, he tried to forget about the stars. Wishing was foolish; life took its course regardless of anything else. There was nothing in the stars, no one watching out for him—for anybody.

His mother was dead, his father grieving, his sisters malicious and triumphant.

What was there to wish?

He had nothing left.

Yet, try though he might to quell the dreams that had once burned so brightly, there remained within him a flickering spark of hope, spitting and flaring a ferocious red despite all that had happened. Try though he might, Paton had not been able to forget his mother's words, had been unable to drive her promises from his heart.

Night was a hard time for Paton. It was when he felt most himself, when he could release the reservations and inhibitions of the day and embrace himself in his entirety. Trapped in a dormitory full of uncomprehending and sleeping boys, it was also when he was most restricted.

The dormitory was stuffy, filled to capacity with one sleeping boy after another. It seemed to Paton that the walls shrank and the ceiling lowered, closing in around him and stifling him where he lay in his tiny bed. Claustrophobic, suffocating in the dim gloom of the hall, he rushed to the window and flung it open, thrusting his head outside and inhaling great gulps of crisp autumn air.

As the dizziness dissipated, he looked skywards where the stars twinkled brightly, their light unquenched, untroubled by the few wispy clouds flitting through the sky.

"You lied, Mom," Paton accused, staring up at the bright sky. "Wishing on a star doesn't make dreams come true. It doesn't change _anything._" He grimaced at how babyish he sounded. Immaturity was one thing he had always excelled at overriding, yet here he was talking to the sky and people who didn't exist.

His mother was dead, and he was sitting here talking to her as if she were not. He blinked, tears appearing in his eyes. Sniffling, he shook his head stubbornly, willing away the obstinate tears that still insisted on collecting. He had been doing so well with everything; why was it all hitting him now, at school, when he had to appear stoic and normal?

Paton imagined the stars were glaring at him, casting their silent, permanent judgment even as he watched, for they blazed on fiercely above him, undaunted by his or anyone else's inner turmoil. His resolve cracked.

"I wish it would." The words were nearly inaudible, ripped from the innermost part of him by that irresistible and indestructible part of childhood. "I wish there were some way for dreams to come true."

The tears he had been withholding suddenly burst free, breaking through his mental dam and cascading down his face. Half in, half out of the window, Paton allowed the cool wind to dry the water leaking from his eyes, blotting at his cheeks with the sleeve of his pajamas. Straining his gaze towards the stars, he allowed all of the emotion he never allowed free to show itself on his face.

"Mom, I wish you were here," he whispered hoarsely, glaring up at the sky accusingly. A blast of cold air hit him, whipping his hair violently about his face and banging the shutter against the side of the dormitory. Paton coughed, driving the frigid air from his lungs, and turned his tear-streaked face to the stars. "I wish you hadn't lied."

When Paton was twenty-eight and Lyell twenty-one, they went out for a rare night of carefree camaraderie. Lyell had a good friend in the owner of one of the local pubs, and had arranged for candlelight to be that night's décor, so Paton had no choice but to accompany his friend.

"To life!" Lyell toasted, raising his glass in the air with a broad smile.

"Cheers." Paton smacked his tankard into Lyell's with a slightly more reserved grin. They drank slowly, savoring the atmosphere and enjoying the liberation of being young and carefree.

It was so rare that Paton braved the city's nightlife at all, and rarer still for him to ignore his inhibitions and let loose. Lyell did not intend the night to go to waste, and so kept his friend's glass full and a smile upon his face.

Later, when night was well established and they had had their fill of fun, Paton and Lyell left the pub, bound for Paton's apartment on the outskirts of town. Mindful of Paton's endowment, they kept to dark roads and alleys, skirting neon signs and any traffic they happened to stumble across.

Crossing onto a particularly dark street lined with swaying elms, Paton paused, causing Lyell to crash into his back.

"Paton," his friend asked, confused by the sudden stop, "What are you doing?"

Paton ignored his friend, tilting his head back to stare up at the sky in wonder. "The stars," he breathed, his breath fogging in the cool night, "They're so bright tonight." The heavenly bodies in question sat high in their usual positions, bright specks against the black velvet of the night sky.

Puzzled but willing to play along, Lyell allowed his gaze to drift heavenward as well, drinking in the tranquility offered by the night and its far-flung fiery companions. "That they are," he agreed, deeply inhaling the rich autumn air. Curious, he turned to Paton. "You rarely ever look at the sky, though. What's with the interest tonight?"

Paton put his hands in his pockets and shrugged, keeping his face tilted up towards the silver light. "My mother used to say those we love, those who have moved on, are in the stars. She insisted that they are up there watching over us—that when we make a wish they will seek it, guide us to happier times." Saying it now, out loud and to his best friend, he felt silly for ever believing it. He laughed, passing a hand embarrassedly over his eyes and looking towards the ground. "I know it's silly," he told the pavement, his fear of mockery driving him to avoid Lyell's eyes.

"I know it's silly," he repeated, "but I can't help remembering it. I can't help wishing every now and then—" Breaking off, he stood silently for a minute, lost in thought. Finally, he turned grinned sheepishly at Lyell, his eyes offering a silent apology. "It's nonsense, I know, but it's my nonsense."

Lyell nodded in understanding and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I understand," he said simply. "Never let that go, no matter what happens." His smile bore a trace of sadness as he watched his friend. Paton had been through so much already, and likely had many more troubles on the way. He shook his head to clear away any negative thoughts. "Never let that go," he repeated firmly.

The two friends stood for a long while on that darkened road, silently gazing up at the stars blanketing the sky.

When Paton met Julia Ingledew, he knew it was an opportunity for happiness that he would never have again. Every time they spoke, his heart was in his throat; he was absolutely terrified that he would somehow mess up, would somehow err and cause her to leave him.

Paton did not want to be alone anymore.

He wanted friends, and family—and love. Understanding and compassion were foreign bodies to Paton, or at least the receiving end of them. He desired nothing so much as acceptance and love, proof that he, too, was still human.

As with any other night, Paton felt far more at ease now that the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. The coming of darkness took a load off of his shoulders, the blanketing silence that accompanied sweeping through the house and easing his stress.

Though there had been rain earlier, the sky was now clear and bright, and Paton free to fling open his window at Number 9 and look up at the twinkling heavens. Feeling sillier with each moment that passed, he squeezed his eyes closed and leaned further out the window, straining towards the oldest of his friends.

"Please," he murmured, not quite sure who he was addressing. Were his pleas to Fate, unreachable, cruel Fate, that demented force that constantly toyed with his life like a cat with a mouse, batting him around for sheer entertainment?

Was he trying to reach his mother, long dead but never forgotten, the last, desperate plea of a beloved son with nothing else to lose?

Or, was he simply reaching for the stars, distant and eternally symbolic as they were, and always would be?

Paton had no idea.

"Please…" He spoke still, his voice little more than a whisper, and he focused all his energy on imagining a future, on hoping and dreaming. He thought of Charlie and Julia and he hoped, more than he ever had before. He thought of the struggle between the endowed, and allowed himself to dream of a victorious end.

He thought of the future, and he dreamed, one possibility flitting by after another, teasing him and dancing through his yearning mind. He thought of the stars, and he wished, wished for happiness, wished for a future with Julia, a future at all—and his wishes came true.

* * *

And there is the end of Secret Three! What did you like or dislike about this chapter? Drop me a review and let me know!


	4. Marathons and Mischief

**Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.**

It's been a few weeks; sorry about that, but AP exams take precedence over fanfiction. I'm done now, though, so happy days are here again!

As always, read, enjoy, and review!

* * *

_Secret Four: He has run a marathon._

It's not something he shares with many people, but Paton loves to run. It is his secret addiction, a means of stress relief that requires no company or lights. He can be all alone and still find his peace.

There's something hypnotic about the rhythm of his feet pounding methodically into the pavement, one after the next, legs churning as he pushes through to that next mile. He can go off into a trance, lost in his thoughts and the tranquility of his surroundings, entirely separate from the chaos that normally surrounds him.

Whenever Paton finds himself at a loss, he runs. On goes the old, broken-in tee shirt he would never confess to owning, a well-worn red rag of a shirt he's had for far too many years. It has its match in the shorts he throws on—those see the light of day even more rarely than the shirt, for Paton does not generally believe in gadding about in mesh. The shoes are much newer, replaced as he maxes out their mileage.

He doesn't race, though, not any more. The marathon was a one-time deal, the one thing in his life he did for its own sake. He ran it simply because he _could_. Not because he had to, not because someone wanted him to; he did it for fun, and to be able to say that he had run accomplished this feat that so few do.

He trained for months, building up his endurance and pace, increasing his time from his typical forty-five minutes to long-distance jaunts lasting up to three hours. It was strenuous and exhausting, but he loved every minute of it.

The sense of peace and accomplishment that engulfed him as he crossed that finish line was more than enough reward. He knew then that he had made the right decision in running the race. Afterwards, he lessened his miles and lightened his training, but he continued to run; it was an integral part of _him._

Paton knew he would never give up running. To do so would be tantamount to his ceasing to breathe.

With the sun in his face and the wind at his back, Paton felt completely and utterly free. He had no cares and worries, no stress chaining him down. It was simply him and a long stretch of asphalt.

Problems disappeared when he ran, swallowed by the endorphins that coursed through his system. When he ran, he was just Paton. He had no endowment, no familial issues. He was free.

Nobody besides his father had any idea of his running. He tried to keep it that way. Something kept him from revealing it, some subconscious part of his brain that let him instinctively know that very few people should be aware of his athletic hobby.

Paton felt that if too many people found out, his running would lose its allure. It would cease to be his sanctuary, fail to give him the reprieve he needed from the world. He knew if he lost running he would lose his mind, and so it stayed a very well-kept secret.

When Paton's athleticism finally _was_ discovered, it was by one of the last people he would have imagined.

The night was a dark one, only a few stars and the waxing moon shining overhead, and Paton could not sleep. He tossed and turned on his mattress, desperately trying to empty his head-but to no avail. Finally, he gave up on getting any rest.

The stress of the past few weeks had been gnawing at his mind, and he had only been able to run one other time that week; his feet were itchy. It was nearly two in the morning and the streets are all but deserted, so he felt plenty safe in lacing up his shoes and loping out the door.

Once outside, his long legs carried him up and down the city sidewalks, crisscrossing the network of streets as he racked up the miles. As long as he kept a steady pace, he could pass beneath the lights with minimal damage.

Paton loved running in daylight more than anything, but he had long ago made his peace with the night, as well. There was something refreshingly liberating about running beneath the star-splattered sky, the nighttime breeze tugging at your hair. Inhaling the crisp air, Paton smiled broadly and increased his pace, legs churning and lungs pumping.

As he rounded a particularly dark corner, a small figure darted into his path. Paton pulled up short, jerking to a halt and forcing all of the momentum he has built up to dissipate and leave him still. Even so, he nearly plowed the figure over, and could not help but exclaim loudly in surprise.

Long, slender hands reached out and cushioned the impact of his body against the brick building as he threw himself around the slight person, who froze in shock and alarm.

Olivia Vertigo nearly jumped out of her skin, freezing where she stood and looking up at Paton with undisguised panic. "Mr. Yewbeam?" Her voice, trembling with alarm at the sight of the looming runner, gained strength and confidence as she became more and more certain of his identity. Her eyes were enormous in the moon's silvery light, and she peered up at Paton with evident relief. "What are you doing?"

Paton staggered back from the wall, wincing as his hands leave the brick and sting at the bite of the air. They are scraped and raw, tender from their impact with the building. "Ah," he breathed, exhaling heavily through his nose and forcing the pain from his mind. Slowly, he regained his bearings and looked down pensively at the girl before him. "I could ask you the same question, Miss Vertigo."

She blushed, the pink tinge just visible in the moonlight. "I couldn't sleep," she said in a small voice. "I had to clear my head."

Shaking his own head, Paton frowned and gave her a serious look. "The streets are not always safe this early in the morning," he chastised. "You should not be out."

Olivia lowered her head, abashed, then frowned and defiantly met his eyes. "_You're _out," she accused, taking in his appearance properly for the first time, "…and running?" She grinned. "I never took you for a runner, Mr. Yewbeam."

He nodded firmly and grasped her elbow, steering her in the direction of her far-off house. "Good. Lt's keep it that way."

Olivia's face bore a bemused expression. "Why?"

Picking up his pace as they crossed under a particularly bright streetlamp, Paton looked askance at his temporary young charge. "How many people do you know who would believe I run?" he asked, humor tinting his voice.

Giggling, Olivia picked up her pace to match his long strides. "That's true." She was quiet for a moment. "Why were you running now?" she finally asked. "I know your endowment makes things…complicated, but two in the morning is still a weird time to run."

Paton raised an eyebrow. "It's also a 'weird' time to be wandering the streets of the city," he remarked.

Huffing indignantly, Olivia crossed her arms and flounced along in his wake. "Fine," she sulked, "be that way."

Paton laughed to himself. Of all of Charlie's friends, he could honestly say Olivia entertained him the most. Her flair for the dramatic combined with her natural precociousness left no room for dullness. Of course, he thought wryly as he listed to her tromp along behind him, it also gave her quite the personality and an insatiable curiosity.

"So, Mr. Yewbeam." Olivia had caught up to him again, swinging her arms as she walked and looking for all the world like she was just out for a stroll rather than being chaperoned back to her house in the middle of the night.

Tilting his head to indicate he was listening, Paton kept on his path, determinedly looking everywhere but the bright lights of the store they were passing.

"How long have you been running?" the girl ask, her mahogany hair glinting in the light as she turned her face up curiously to look at him.

Paton thought for a moment. "At least since I was a teenager," he said at last. "I needed something to do, some way to get out of the house and," he chuckled, "stretch my legs, if you will."

Olivia grinned. "Makes sense," she said. Then, she made a face. "I don't see how you do it, though. I would get bored and tired!"

Looking up and down the street as they came to an intersection, Paton led Olivia to the sidewalk on the other side. "It's far from boring," he said once they were across the street. "There's a sort of trance-like state you fall in to, where you don't even notice the passage of time."

Noting Olivia's uncomprehending look, Paton gave her a slight smile. "Something tells me, though, that you probably would be bored." He took on a more serious expression. "Now, tell me why you were _really _out here," he said.

Mulish, Olivia shook her head.

Paton shrugged and continued walking. "Very well," he said, "but that leaves me no choice but to tell your parents what you were doing tonight."

Olivia blanched. "Oh, please don't, Mr. Yewbeam!" she begged.

His lips quirked, and he quickly hid the movement behind a hand. "Well, it's my responsibility as an adult to inform them of your nocturnal activities."

Jogging to keep up with him, Olivia heaved a long-suffering sigh. "If I tell you," she said, "will you not give me away?"

Paton weighed the idea. "As long as what you tell me doesn't prove dangerous to you or anyone else," he said finally.

Satisfied, Olivia smiled. "Good enough for me! I was going to, um, decorate Tancred's house."

Paton raised a politely skeptical eyebrow. "Decorate?"

From her bag, Olivia pulled two or three rolls of toilet paper. "Decorate," she said decisively. "It's harmless, and between Tancred and his father, cleaning up would take a matter of seconds."

"Then why do it?" Paton asked. Teenage logic was beyond his comprehension sometimes.

White teeth flashed as Olivia gave him a bright smile. "Because Tancred and his accompanying wind absolutely _ruined _my outfit last week, and all he could do was laugh about it."

"Ah." Teenage _girl _logic was like a whole different culture.

Sensing this, Olivia's grin grew. "I know it's silly and childish," she said, stowing the toilet paper back in her bag, but you have to admit it would have been fun."

Thinking back to his own days in school, when he had been too cowardly to have "decorated" anyone's house, Paton was forced to agree. "It does have a certain appeal to it," he conceded.

Olivia's eyes sparkled. "How about you help me?" she asked impishly.

"Ha, and get on the wrong side of that family of hurricanes? I think not!" Paton shot her a disbelieving glance and picked up his pace, giving her no time to protest.

Humbled, Olivia backed down. "You're right," she said, "I don't want to cause any problems."

She trailed forlornly behind him for a time, until Paton took pity on her and slowed his breakneck pace, turning to look back at her. "We might be able to put that toilet paper to good use, though," he said, a mischievous light growing in his eyes.

It may have been the company he was keeping, or perhaps he was still overloaded with endorphins from his run, but Paton found himself brimming with roguish excitement.

A delighted look appeared on Olivia's face. "_Really_?" she asked, unable to believe it.

"You would have to swear not to tell a soul." Paton was suddenly very serious, and Olivia nodded solemnly, zipping her lips and tossing the imaginary key behind her.

She could not believe her luck. Here was Charlie's uncle, a man she admired and respected more than any adult she knew, about to lower himself to perform a silly prank. Her opinion of him grew even greater. "Where are we going now?" she asked, noticing they had turned down a side street.

"It's a secret," Paton said. He looked thoughtfully at Olivia. "I know you don't like running," he said, "but how fast can you run?"

Olivia's grin was all the response he needed.

Twenty minutes and three rolls of toilet paper later, two figures streaked down the winding alley, dark blurs against the pitch black of early morning, leaving three identical, rickety houses well covered in long streams of white.

Sometimes, Paton thought, all stress-relief and serenity aside, it was just fun to _run_.

* * *

It's a bit shorter than the previous chapters, but I didn't feel it needed too many embellishments. Chapter 5 is already in the works, so you shouldn't have to wait to long for it to emerge.

Please review! I love feedback!


	5. Insomnia and Self

**Disclaimer: _Still_ not mine.**

Oh, but it does feel good to be done with high school! Here's to summer break (and more frequent updates for you!). I'd like to take a sec to thank all of you who take the time to review. It really means a lot to me, and I want to let you know that it is greatly appreciated; I'm usually just to lazy to reply individually...sorry.

As always, read, review, and above all, enjoy!

* * *

_Secret Five: He cannot sleep through the night. _

It's not that he likes it, or that he tries to remain awake; he physically cannot get a full night's sleep, regardless of how exhausted he is.

Every night, without fail, Paton is compelled to awaken. Sometimes it's an hour after he falls asleep, other times it's halfway through the night. The insomnia has become a way of life, a sick sort of constant that governs Paton's nightly cycle.

Insomnia is a fickle acquaintance, for all of its consistency. Paton has spent hours some nights desperately wishing for sleep to take him, while others he simply awakens, blinks blearily at the clock, and then disappears back into his dreams. He prefers the nights where he barely remembers waking up, so of course those are few and far between. More often than not, he lays in bed, miserably exhausted but unable to slip into sleep.

Paton isn't entirely sure when his restless nights began—just that they started sometime after he discovered his endowment.

Some nights, it isn't bad. Get up, wander to the bathroom, drink some water, collapse back into bed—easy, and relatively unmemorable.

Other nights, it's not nearly that simple.

Those nights—mornings, really—Paton will lie in bed for hours, staring blankly at the ceiling as he desperately tried to empty his churning mind. More often than not, he is plagued by dreams and nightmares, his roiling thoughts melding confusingly in his brain. It's not that he doesn't _want_ to sleep—he _can't_.

It is one of the worst feelings in the world.

When Paton was a child, it started simply enough, beginning with standard insomnia. He would wake up in the middle of the night, mind going a thousand miles a minute and unable to slow down, and would lie awake for a while until he settled his thoughts down enough to sleep.

It didn't matter if the worries were family- or school-related, for he woke up at Bloors just as often as he did at home. The nights at Bloors were the worst. Falling asleep when surrounded by distractions is much harder than doing so at home, secure in one's room. The muffled snores and breathing of the other boys in the dormitory grew louder and louder in Paton's ears, pounding against his head like waves crashing into shore.

Paton's most prominent memories of his nights at school are those of his dormitory, and its ceiling in particular. It was wooden and paneled, remnants of white paint from more glorious days still peeling in the corners.

During his time at Bloors, Paton learned that ceiling like the back of his hand.

Mind churning, he would hunker determinedly under his covers, desperately trying to empty his head of any distracting thoughts. Inevitably, this would lead to even more, and he would be left wide awake and unable to do a thing about it. He clenched his eyelids shut, determined to keep himself in at least the semblance of sleep.

Reading to distract himself was out of the question; he had discovered early on that his dorm mates were unusually sensitive to nighttime lights, and would awaken the moment he dared to light a candle. The last thing he wanted in his life was for attention to be called to his irregularities.

Sleep, too, was an impossible option, for once Paton was fully conscious his brain decided that he should remain awake and coherent. He would run through the day's events, and anything that was worrying him, over and over again, stuck in an endless cycle of stress and sleeplessness.

Tossing and turning, he made the most of his predicament, eventually learning that wasting time trying to sleep was not worth the effort. Instead, he applied himself to whatever concern or stress that was plaguing him. He bent his thoughts to the matter and willed the issue away, reasoning through his irrational fears and worries.

Eventually, Paton came to a sort of truce with this stress-induced insomnia, accepting that it was simply there to stay, and nothing he could do would ever change that. He resigned himself to a lifetime to interrupted rest-a fate he finds fitting for a person whose life is filled with interruptions.

When Lyell is presumed dead, the nightmares begin. They tear at Paton, whittle away at his mental and physical fortitude. He wakes up each night caked in sweat and shivering uncontrollably, haunted by the phantoms of his mind.

"No!" The muted cry is torn from his numb lips as he slips readily from sleep to wakefulness, yanked into reality from an imagined pursuit by his enemies.

Paton lies on his back, chest heaving and eyes wide, desperately trying to push the horrific images from his mind. Flashes of the dream still cling to his thoughts, an image here, and impression there. He recalls a car flying over a cliff, a feeling of complete helplessness washing over him. He can remember the grim, grinning faces of his sisters looming over his head, flashes of despair, blood—blood everywhere—and an overwhelming sense of guilt.

It is the guilt that is killing him. It takes even the most innocuous of thoughts and warps them into full-fledged terrors, perverting his very mind.

Paton gasps and wiggles out from under the covers, allowing the cool air of his room to wash over his body and cool his fevered skin. "So real," he muttered, raising a shaking hand to his face. "Lyell, my friend…"

Even nighttime, Paton's longtime companion, is a stranger.

The shadows of the room seem to loom over him; what was innocent and harmless at his bedtime is now warped beyond recognition, terrifying and unknown in the ravenous darkness. The shirt draped over his desk chair is a ravening beast, the dangling sleeves the claws that it extends toward him. The tower of books by his desk is transformed into a hideous, rearing _thing_, the shadow on the wall beside his head a perfect manifestation of Grizelda's triumphant face.

He shudders and closes his eyes, willing his mind to return to its logical state. Nothing of what he now sees is real. He knows that. He knows everything he thinks he sees is a figment of his imagination, brought on by the guilt and stress that have been steadily gnawing away at him since Lyell's bodiless funeral.

It makes no difference to tell himself this.

Logic has no place in the dark. The mind is at its weakest in sleep, susceptible to manipulation. Every night, without fail, Paton's mind is invaded by irrational fear and guilt. Driven by his waking regret, fueled by his overwhelming remorse, the nightmares are now routine.

They troop in each night about an hour into Paton's sleep, bring him crashing into consciousness not an hour later, and leave him to spend the rest of the night sleepless. The following day sees him stumbling through his daily routine, the dark circles under his eyes growing more and more pronounced, and then returning to bed to begin the process anew.

It's slowly killing him.

Unable to banish his imagined phantoms, Paton turns his gaze to the ceiling, the blessedly dull, harmless ceiling. He bends his mind to happier pursuits, desperate to end this agonizing cycle once and for all—but to no avail.

Sleep comes eventually, but with it come more nightmares. Only after a full month has passed does Paton return to his typical agreement with sleep. The nightmares fade slowly into memory, leeched away by the passage of time, and Paton collapses back into his routine, specter-free insomnia.

Paton's waking nightmare at the hands of Yorath does not help his sleep pattern in any way. Subjected to one day of agonizing torment after another at the hands of the malicious shape shifter, he lies in a sort of indeterminate awareness, caught between consciousness and oblivion. Yewbeam Castle was not a pleasant place to begin with, and this eternal torment warps it even further, twisting it into a macabre labyrinth caked with years of ill intent and suffering.

When Paton finally manages to drag himself home, staggering up the stairs of Number 9 and flopping fully-clothed into his bed, he loses all sense of reality.

He floats between a vague sense of alertness—in that he is aware of where he is and who, if anyone, is there—and a stupor in which he is subjected to one hideous nightmare after another.

Faceless phantasms pursue him through darkened mazes. An ever-shifting demon throws him into a wall, snapping at his heels as he staggers desperately away from it. Everyone he loves disappears before his eyes, each victim to a hideous demise. Even awake, Paton is dreaming, delirious with fever and the fiends of his imagination. They step from his world of nightly nightmares into his waking reality, shattering the barrier that he had erected long ago.

Now, he has no sanctuary; his only ties to sanity have been breached.

Paton barely notices when Charlie comes home from Bloors each weekend. He senses the boy's presence on those rare times that he is awake, but the cognizance to actively recognize it is missing. Evil, death, despair—he is a haunted man.

Nothing wakes him from this living hell, though the household tries. Maisie came in early on, in those first few weeks when the family still retained hope of his recovery, and read to him, pulling various volumes from his shelves and reading those works written in a language she could actually understand. Amy still comes in from time to time, clearing the sweat and soot from his brow with a damp cloth. She'll hold his hand and talk to him. Mostly, her words are lost, caught up in the roaring ocean of desolation that surrounds him.

Charlie comes again, unable to relinquish hope, this time bringing the sorcerer. Paton's stress and terror, already magnified by Yorath's evil workings, intensify tenfold. Hope has forsaken him entirely, left him stranded amid an isle of utter ruin. There is nothing left for him now.

Years of fighting his insomnia and nightmares are for naught as he nears his breaking point, drawn ever closer by his internal self-destruction. Now his reality has reversed itself, and what was real is reduced to the status of a dream. Charlie, Lyell, Julia-each fades into the background, indistinct and inseparable from the much more vivid nightmares that overshadow them.

When Paton's fever breaks, he jolts back into awareness with a great gasp, like a swimmer breaking the surface of the water after a long dive. His head is clear, his eyes bright-he is whole again. He is _awake_.

Following his torture at the hands of Yorath, Paton notices a new trend develop in his sleep. He still wakes up in the middle of the night, but now the nightmares are much more frequent. It used to be that he could suppress his inner demons, put them aside and fret about reality and the day's worries as opposed to things that were utterly improbably, but now he is far more affected by what is not than what has actually come to pass.

His imagination runs rampant, gamboling through various levels of unimaginable horrors. It leads him through realities where nothing good has ever happened to him, where every happy memory ceases to exist and all he has ever known is despair. It tugs him into worlds where he is hated and exiled by all for his endowment, even though his reason tells him there are other, far worse abilities than his. His imagination lures him into the depths of his greatest fears, sucks him into mires where Julia does not know him, where she is disgusted by him, where she is harmed on his account-or, worst of all, as a result of something _he _did.

Compared to the horrors that cocooned him while Yorath had him incapacitated, though, the nightmares are tolerable. Now, he welcomes the insomnia with open arms as a release, as proof that none of it is real. No matter how hard his mind tries to wear down his spirit, he knows that he can simply awaken and will the horrors away.

Nothing is true until it becomes a reality. This is how Paton can face his fears head on, eyes flashing and mouth set. This is how Paton can stand strong in the face of his worst nightmares, in those times when he must live out what his mind has imagined; he has already faced it in his nightmares, and knows that he must fight as hard as he can to prevent them from coming true.

If all else fails, though, Paton can wake up in the night and turn to look at his wife, her chestnut hair spread out across the pillow and her face buried in his shoulder. He can feel her chest expand with each breath, feel each soft exhalation in the skin of his neck, and know that there will always be someone who loves him, someone who gives him a purpose to live. He knows that no matter what life throws at him, no matter what horrors-waking or sleeping-he is forced to face, he will not face it alone.

* * *

So what do you think? Drop me a review and let me know!


	6. Solitude and Socks

**Disclaimer: For some reason, I _still _don't own Paton or the Charlie Bone series. If anybody would like to donate a Paton to my cause, though, I would be eternally grateful!**

When I initially had the idea for this secret, it was just a silly thought that I didn't think would yield enough material for a chapter. Then, I got bored and started writing it, sat back and asked myself if I could seriously get a chapter out of it, and proceeded to hash out an outline that actually worked. So, here it is!

As always, read, enjoy, and review!

* * *

_Secret Six: He has never been able to wear a matching pair of socks. _

It's quite irritating, really. If he reaches for the black one, it's nowhere to be found. If his choice for the day is tan, the only socks in the vicinity are black, white, or navy. It doesn't matter if he is headed to a ceremony, family meeting, or simply living out his daily routine—he _never_ has two socks that match.

Usually, having matching socks is not one of Paton's higher priorities anyway. He'll just reach a hand into his sock door, paw through the mismatched garments, and yank out two that are close enough in color for their differences to go unnoticed. He already knows that he'll never find a matching pair, so very seldom does he try to do so.

He isn't entirely sure why he has been cursed with this unusual doom, but it has become an undeniable part of his life. He has even gone so far as to go out and purchase a pack of identical socks and place them in plain view in his sock drawer, only to turn around the next day and only be able to find one.

It is an anomaly that astonishes him to no end.

When he was younger, it was typically funny, an unusual quirk that he could mention in passing to the few friends who stuck around for longer than a week or two. He and his father shared a long-standing joke about his subtly mismatched socks, James rolling his eyes and grinning whenever he espied evidence of his son's wayward footwear.

"You know your socks have to be there _somewhere_," James would say, walking with Paton up to his room. Paton would simply grin, pull open his sock drawer, and present his father with the irrefutable fact that none of his socks had a partner.

Sometimes Paton's good humor ran out, though, and the sock dilemma became an encumbering irritant.

"Dad, do you have any socks I can borrow?" Paton's voice echoed through the halls of the house, weaving around corners and bounding over doors to reach James in his room downstairs.

Looking up from the pile of clothes he had been rooting through, James raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were content to just wear yours," he remarked, standing up and idly sifting through the shirts hanging in his closet.

Paton sighed. "Not tonight. We're going out for my birthday to a nice restaurant. I want to be formal."

Smiling and shaking his head at his son's determination—how many other ten-year-olds took presentation that seriously?—James turned to his sock drawer and procured a small pair of black socks. "I have some, son," he called, heading up the stairs to hand them over.

Paton met him at the top of the stairs, hair askew and wearing a pair of black pants and a crisp white shirt. "Thank you," he said, gratitude overwhelming his voice. He bent down and put them on his feet. "This way they can't disappear on me," he explained, looking up at his father.

An understanding nod indicated James' approval. Turning to go back down the stairs, James tried to decide if the socks would actually make it to the restaurant. He knew it was crazy, as he had just physically handed the socks to his son himself, but for some strange reason he still wasn't certain that Paton could escape his unusual curse.

The car ride to dinner passed without event, and soon James and Paton found themselves exiting the car and walking across the parking lot toward the candlelit restaurant.

Unfortunately for Paton, there had been heavy rain earlier in the day, leaving deep puddles scattered across the pavement. Walking along next to his father, Paton failed to notice a particularly cavernous puddle that sat directly in his path. In plunged his right foot, his leg sinking into the hole nearly up to his knee.

Paton froze, staring down at the offending water in numb disbelief. "You're kidding," he said flatly, slowly withdrawing his leg from the puddle. His leg was soaked to the skin, his shoe sodden, his sock waterlogged.

Pausing in his stride when he realized Paton was no longer beside him, James turned around and immediately took stock of Paton's distress. "I have a towel in the car," he offered, steering Paton back towards the lot.

"What about our reservation?" Paton asked, grimacing as his wet shoe and sock squelched wetly against the damp asphalt.

James gave him a warm smile, fishing around in the backseat for the towel. "I think it can wait a few minutes." He sat back and let Paton dry his pants and leg to the best of his ability.

Unlacing his shoe, Paton yanked it off of his foot and upended it, allowing what seemed to be a lake's worth of water to cascade onto the asphalt. Gingerly, he pulled off his sock, holding the sodden item between his thumb and forefinger and examining it with a look of the greatest disgust.

"Looks like I will be mismatched again," he remarked, flinging the sock into the backseat and sliding his shoe back onto his bare foot.

James was curious. "Why does it bother you so much?" he asked. "Your pants are more than long enough to disguise the fact, and it is only just a sock."

Paton frowned as he thought about his father's question. "I think," he said slowly, a contemplative look on his face, "that I project myself into my socks."

James raised an eyebrow.

The boy gave a wry chuckle. "See, it's like this: socks are supposed to be two of a kind. You never buy one without the other. A sock _always _has a partner." He paused and ran a hand through his hair, briefly appearing far older than his ten years. "I think that the fact that mine never do kind of reflects the fact that I rarely have a partner, an equal or a friend; it's always just me. Usually I like being solitary, but," and he bit his lip, vulnerability now casting him as the ten-year-old he actually was, "sometimes it gets lonely."

It was all James could do not to take his son in his arms and give him the biggest hug imaginable. As shy as Paton was in public, he would simply shirk away from the affection. Instead, James did the next best thing he could think of. He knelt down in front of Paton, unlaced his shoe, and proceeded to pull off his own sock and toss it in the backseat with Paton's ruined one.

"There!" he declared, smiling broadly at the disbelieving look on his son's face. "Now we can both be slightly sockless." He put his shoe back on and stood up, briefly squeezing Paton's shoulder.

Paton stood in silence for a minute, looking up at his father in undisguised awe and gratitude. Quickly, he darted in and gave James a hug, squeezing his middle and beaming up at his father's face. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered.

Neither would say it out loud, but in that moment father and son felt closer than they ever had. Paton did his best to have fun, but he was a serious child in even the most frivolous of moments, and his cumbersome endowment often left him isolated and alone in the shadows.

Tonight, James had taken steps to draw his son into the light, if only for a few moments, and give him something that he desperately needed: a friend.

A great rumble cut through the moment, and James let out a great peal of laughter as Paton shot his stomach an accusatory glare. "Now," James said, steering his son away from the car, "let's go eat!"

Side by side, one missing his right sock, the other missing his left, father and son strode towards the restaurant, identical smiles sitting on their faces.

As the years progressed, Paton came more and more to regard his unusual blight as a source of amusement. Nevertheless, he retained his childhood philosophy that his lone socks represented him, and that his inability to retain a matching pair was a reflection of his endowment and the isolation that it forced upon him.

When he met Julia, he was forced to revise that connotation.

Standing in Charlie's doorway, Paton clutched a long, dark sock between his thumb and forefinger. "Charlie, you wouldn't happen to know the whereabouts of this garment's partner, would you?" he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

The query itself was innocent enough, and Paton's voice was light and casual even his face carefully clear of any accusation. Even so, Charlie grimaced slightly and shifted uneasily from foot to foot, avoiding his uncle's eyes. "Um," he hedged, stalling for time, "why do you ask?"

Paton's eyebrow traveled even farther up his forehead. "Because, dear boy," he enunciated patiently, "I would like to wear a matching pair of socks to my wedding, and Julia suggested that I ask you about my singular sock. Since I specifically went out and bought the pair last week, and have been keeping it at the bookshop virtually under lock and key, I decided her idea had some merit." He looked pointedly from Charlie to the object in question.

Charlie met his eyes stoically, refusing to blink.

Paton's lips twitched, and he extended the arm holding the sock farther into the room.

"Fine, fine!" Charlie threw his hands up in the air. "I confess—I borrowed them the other day for Tancred's party."

Frowning, Paton lowered the sock that sat between them like a leaden elephant. "What about your own socks," he asked, a touch of exasperation seeping into his voice, "or a pair of Lyell's, even? Why did it have to be my _one pair_ of matching socks, that I specifically went out and purchased last week for my _wedding_?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, pacing back and forth in the doorway. "Dear boy, do you know how many matching pairs of socks I've ever worn?"

Curious, CHarlie shook his head.

"None," Paton replied, ceasing his movement and leveling a disapproving frown at his newphew. "I would have liked to have at least had the opportunity to _try _to break that streak on my wedding."

CHarlie flushed and began stammering excuses. "Well, see, we were leaving from the bookstore because we had to meet Emma first, and—"

Paton held up a hand and cut him off. "No more," he commanded, his expression unreadable. He had made up his mind that some things were simply fated to be impossible. Sorrowfully, he looked down at the lone sock threaded between his slender fingers. "It was simply not to be, little friend," he mourned quietly.

With a great flourish, he cast the sock onto the scattered mass of clothes that littered Charlie's floor. "Go—be free."

Charlie laughed, both at his uncle's antics and in relief that he wasn't being held accountable for the sock's loss. "Have you given up, then?" he asked.

Paton grinned, the last of the tension leaving the room with his smile. "No, simply accepted my fate." He clapped Charlie on the shoulder and left the room, resigned to the fact that he would simply have to wear one black and one navy sock with his black tuxedo the next day.

The day of the wedding dawned bright and beautiful, and morning found Paton pacing the lobby of the church, fidgeting with his cuffs and bowtie. He looked as handsome as he ever had, the pitch black of his tuxedo a perfect match for his dark hair.

Only one thing irritated him about his appearance: his socks. Even though he knew no one could see what he wore under his shiny black shoes, the knowledge that one of them was an incredibly dark navy instead of black was driving him up the proverbial wall.

He knew it shouldn't bother him. He was about to get married to the most beautiful, amazing woman in the world. It should be—it _was_—the happiest day of his life.

Even so, the socks were driving him crazy.

As he paced along the halls of the church, killing time before the ceremony, he saw one of the doors open a crack and a warm, honey-colored eye peer out. "Paton!" Julia's voice carried across the hall. "Come here!"

Paton froze, looking back at the open door. Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks, and he fidgeted, folding his hands in on themselves. "What about tradition?" he asked. "I'm not supposed to see you for…" he glanced around for a clock, "another hour and a half."

He could almost _feel _Julia rolling her eyes. "Just come here, love," she ordered. A touch of loving exasperation seeped into her voice. "I don't have to open the door," she added.

Grinning, Paton strode over to the crack in the door. "What is it, my dear?" he asked genially, peering through the opening in blatant disregard of the tradition he had just lauded.

Julia laughed and pulled the door open a bit more, allowing the crack to become a sliver large enough for her arm to fit through.

It took all of Paton's self-control to restrain himself from grabbing her extended arm and pulling her to him, but he managed. Distractedly, he glanced down at her hand and saw that it held something. "May I?" he asked, reaching for it.

"It's for you," she said, the light, teasing tone of her voice telling him that she wore a broad smile.

Paton gently took the item from her hand and held it up. His eyebrows rose, and he stared at the object in his hands with no small amount of incredulity. "Is this—?" he asked.

Julia laughed. "It is."

"Socks," he breathed. In his hands, Paton held a perfect, matching pair of black socks. Immediately, he knelt and swapped them for the ones he already wore, as Julia looked on from the doorway. Flinging the mismatched pair behind him, he stood and caught the hand that still extended from the door. "Julia," he murmured, lacing their fingers together, "thank you."

She squeezed his hand and slowly released his fingers, drawing her hand back into the room. "You're welcome," she replied. "I love you," she murmured, giving him one last look before closing the door completely and leaving Paton standing along in the hallway, staring like a fool at the piece of wood that separated him from the most marvelous creature he had ever known.

Looking down at his matching feet, he felt a grin steal over his face.

When he stood at the end of the aisle and watched his beautiful bride walk toward him, he still wore that grin. For the first time in his life, he had a matching pair of socks. For the first time in his life, he had a partner.

For the first time, he was whole.


	7. Women and Love

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

Oh, wow, this one ran away from me. Over three thousand words...well, I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it! As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!

* * *

_Secret Seven: There are exactly three women in his life who he has loved, and who have loved him in return._

The first, of course, is his mother.

As the only son of five children, and the youngest on top of that, Paton held a special place in Solange Yewbeam's heart, an affection that he reciprocated tenfold.

For the first seven years of his life, his mother was his best friend.

When Paton was in primary school, he thought the worst of girls. They were foreign and impossible to understand, and therefore were not worth his time. Paton arrived home from school one day lost in thought, his brows furrowed and his face screwed up into a look of intense concentration. The six-year-old unceremoniously dumped his book and pencil on the floor and hopped up in a chair to sit beside his mother. "Why are girls so weird?" he asked the room at large.

Solange raised a delicate eyebrow. "I believe you will have to be a bit more specific for me to make sense of your question, love," she said, humor evident in her voice.

Paton grimaced and ran a hand through his floppy black hair, his world-weary air making his mother laugh outright. "Some girl at school today told me she _loved _me," he declared, his bewildered tone a clear indicator of how he viewed such a confession. "I barely even know her, yet she claims she loves me."

Solange laughed. Boys in general tended to ignore the opposite sex, and she knew Paton in particular was even more oblivious than most. "And what did you tell the poor girl?" she asked.

Paton shrugged. "I said I was sorry, but I didn't love her." He tilted his head to the side. "Then I started reading my book again."

"Your book?"

A broad grin spread across Paton's face, and he nodded emphatically. "Yes! I was reading a wonderful book that the teacher showed me when she realized I could read a lot better than the rest of the class, and then this girl interrupted me."

Amusement shone in Solange's eyes. "And I take it this girl did not appreciate being ignored in favor of a book," she prompted.

Paton shook his head. "Nope. She yelled at me and told me I was hopeless, and then she said no girl would ever like me."

A crease marred his mother's flawless face. "That wasn't very nice of her," she murmured, frowning slightly.

It seemed Paton disagreed. "It's _great_," he declared enthusiastically, grinning broadly. "Girls are weird and gross and interrupt me all the time—I don't _want _them to bother me." He nodded decisively, confident in his assessment.

Taking in the fierce belief in the unappealing qualities of the opposite sex that shone in her son's face, Solange smiled, her eyes twinkling in amusement. "You say that now, mon petit," she said, pulling him into her lap, "but just you wait."

She felt him shake his head, and hugged him close, tucking the top of his head underneath her chin. "No?" She laughed. "Well do you at least want _my _love?"

He twisted in her grasp to look at her seriously. "I will _always _love you, Mom," he proclaimed, wrapping his arms as far around her as they would go. "I promise."

The second significant woman in Paton's life is Amy Bone.

Theirs is a purely platonic relationship, she filling the empty slot of caring sister and friend, he serving as a kind, if rather aloof, form of masculine security. For the entirety of Paton's life, he has gone on without much female interaction, his window into a woman's life dying with his mother.

Grizelda and the others are irritants, and barely human in Paton's book. He bears them because he must, but he certainly does not _love_ them.

As far as actual relationships were concerned, Paton tended to avoid them like the plague. As he aged, he took the typical adolescent stabs at establishing some sort of meaningful connection, but after that disastrous night downtown, he wrote himself off as a failed Romeo and removed himself permanently from the dating scene.

Cloistered away from society—and safe, he told himself, from the effects of his endowment—he isolated himself from the rest of the world and all but eliminated human contact.

In the midst of this self-imposed exile, Amy Bone proved herself to be the shining light in Paton's life.

She was, and is, an entity unto herself, as she proved by willingly joining his insane family. In return for her companionship, for her love, he protected her and Charlie to the best of his ability, albeit from behind the scenes. The world, and their world in particular, was no place for a woman alone and her potentially-endowed young son.

He loves her as the sister he wishes he had, esteems her kindness and sweet spirit above the all the pettiness and evildoing of his true relations.

They do not discuss much in the way of feelings, for Paton is and always has been mute on the subject of emotions. Amy knows this, though, and understands, so they continue on their strange little cycle of unspoken support and companionship, two lonely adults clinging to the few friends they have left in the world.

Paton loves Amy, too, as the wife of his best friend.

Even in Lyell's absence, she remains—a constant reminder of happier times long gone. He wonders sometimes if he should hate her for the memories she inadvertently invokes, for the pain that wells up to the surface and breaks through his emotional barriers.

Even as he stands oozing emotional agony, his psyche raw and red from the assault of long-suppressed memories, he loves Amy Bone. He loves her because she is his friend, when he thought he had none.

He loves her because she keeps Lyell alive, though he is gone.

And, he loves her because she makes him remember, because of the wrenching guilt that gnaws away at his heart each time he sees his best friend's widow, each time he sees the suffering and loss swimming behind her eyes. Her presence means that he never forgets, that he never stops thinking about the fact that _his _hesitation caused all of the agony that she now suffers.

There is a night that both remember with particular acuity, a night a few short years after Lyell's disappearance that marks the turning point in their relationship.

A lone candle flickered in the center of the table, its dancing light illuminating the crumpled picture and wine glass that sat at the table's head, the flame turning what wine remained a deep, bloody red. At the edge of the candlelight, partially hidden by encroaching shadows, Paton sat slumped in a chair, his elbows propped against the table and his head buried in his hands.

He had been doing well containing his emotions. It was a full two years since Lyell's accident, two years since Paton had moved in with Grizelda, Maisie, Charlie, and Amy. He had kept to himself for most of those two years, joining the family only for the odd meal and as a silent form of support when his sisters, he limited himself to nighttime excursions, and as a result his human contact had dwindled to virtually nothing. He saw no one, he spoke to no one—and that was fine by him.

The less he said, the less was expected of him, and the less guilt he had to suffer when he inevitably failed to rise to expectations.

There were nights, though, nights such as this one, where darkness was not his only companion, where guilt and regret and an insatiable inclination to change—to_ act_—penetrated his defenses and laid siege to his mind. Nights like these, it was not enough to simply bury himself in the dark, for now the dark turned against him.

Sitting up enough so he could bring his wine to his lips, he took a long sip, staring darkly into the deep red liquid. Setting the glass down, his hand passed over the photograph that had incited his current surge of self-loathing. It had fallen from his bookshelf earlier in the night as he replaced a volume, fluttering innocently down to meet the paper-strewn carpet.

The picture showed the Bone family shortly after Charlie's birth: Lyell with his arms slung across Amy's shoulders, broad, happy smiles on their faces and their beaming baby boy lying between them.

It was all too much.

Paton found himself overwhelmed by all of the emotions he had tried so hard for the last two years to shut out: guilt, first and foremost; regret, for what was lost; misery, in the knowledge _he _was partly responsible; and above all, the most profound sense of loss he had ever known.

So entrenched in his melancholy musings was Paton that he failed to notice when another candle joined his on the table, failed to see the slim hand remove his wine glass and replace it with a plate full of warm food and a glass of water.

"Paton?" Amy frowned, concerned. He seemed almost trancelike, his dark eyes open but clouded over with the emotional hurricane wreaking havoc on his mind. Gently, she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Paton, snap out of it."

He came back to the present with a jolt, sitting up so quickly that he dislodged Amy's hand from its resting place. "What—?" He shook his head, disoriented. As his eyes slowly readjusted to the light and he regained his bearings, he noticed the plate of food that sat before him. He looked at it for a moment, noting the careful arrangement and the welcome steam rising from the plate; it had been a while since he had eaten a hot meal, and he turned to Amy, the gratitude evident on his face. "Thank you," he said softly.

His voice has hoarse from lack of use and the emotions he was struggling to keep at bay, but Amy could still hear the surprise that laced his words. She felt a pang go through her at the thought that he was unused to such a simple act of kindness. They had not been doing right by this man.

Paton watched Amy's expression run through a gamut of emotions. "You're up late," he said to finally break the silence. He rose and pulled out a chair for her, and then returned to his own seat. "Could you not sleep?"

Amy sat slowly in the proffered chair, trying and failing to keep the surprise and gratitude from her face; she could not recall a time since Lyell's accident that Paton had willingly invited company.

"Amy?" Paton asked, concerned when she failed to answer.

She snapped out of her reverie, blushing at her lapse in attention. "Oh, no," she admitted, "I haven't been sleeping well at all lately."

He toasted her with his water. "That makes two of us then," he said softly.

Hearing the regret and bitterness in his voice, Amy frowned and caught his hand in hers as he released the glass. "Paton, what's the matter?" she asked earnestly, her eyes alight with concern. She felt his hand jerk in hers, but was heartened when he did not remove it.

"I'm fine," he said stiffly, shifting his eyes from hers.

Amy could practically see his well-maintained walls going back up, closing off his emotions once again. In a moment of firm certainty, she resolved that she would not let him lock himself away again; the only way to ease the pain was to face it.

"Bull," she said, so frankly that Paton was startled enough to meet her gaze. Amy seized the opportunity and looked straight into his eyes. "Paton," she said softly, squeezing his hand, "you are carrying around too much emotional baggage. I hate seeing you like this. If you keep holding it all in the way you are, it's going to build up to the point that it will all explode."

The words washed over Paton, submerging him in a deluge of reason and buffeting him with their rushing force. He couldn't keep holding it in; he knew that.

"I don't deserve your pity," he said finally, pulling his hand free. He jerked his eyes away from hers. "I don't deserve your kindness, or your respect. You should hate me for what has happened to your family, to you. If I had acted….if I had _known…"_

Amy's lips parted slightly as she began to comprehend the guilt that fueled the rest of Paton's self-depreciation. "None of it is your fault," she cried, jumping up from her chair in her distress. "How can you blame yourself, Paton?"

"I should have acted, put my head up, done _something," _he moaned, agonized. He buried his head in his arms, shoulders shaking. "It's my fault Lyell is dead, my fault you're a widow and that Charlie will never know his father."

Eyes shining with unshed tears for her friend, Amy stepped over to where he sat hunched over the kitchen table. "Paton Yewbeam," she said firmly, "that is complete and utter nonsense."

He looked up at her with tormented eyes.

"You need to let it all go, Paton," Amy said, placing a hand on his arm. "Let the pain out. Let the guilt go." She frowned. "How long has it been since you've allowed yourself to grieve?"

Paton shook his head and curled his free hand around the hand that held his arm. "Never," he confessed softly. He compressed his mouth into a thin line, still fighting the tears that wanted to flow.

Shaking her head, Amy drew him into a hug, holding him tightly. She felt him stiffen in surprise, then relax as he conceded defeat. "That won't do," she murmured. "And Paton, I don't pity you. I have _never _pitied you. You're one of my dearest friends, one of Lyell's dearest friends, and one of the best role models I could want for my son." She squeezed his shoulders. "I love you, you foolish man, and you damn well better accept that."

In one, sudden moment of release, Paton's walls came crashing to the ground. He buried his face in Amy's steady shoulder and allowed himself to express the pain of love.

Ultimately, he loves Amy Bone because she reminds him what it feels like to be human.

The third love of Paton's life is naturally Julia Ingledew.

Initially, Paton wasn't sure what was happening. The world around him seemed to swim, blurring in and out of focus. He felt as though he were falling, plummeting through an endless sky. He leaned against the bookshop's heavy wooden door, gazing up from beneath eh awning at the impossibly blue sky above.

Was he crazy? What was this unfamiliar sensation?

He looked down at his hands, examining them critically as if expecting to see some obvious sign of change.

Nothing _looked_ different, but that still left him with this strange, unidentifiable feeling coursing through his veins and thrumming in his head.

Paton took a few shaky steps onto the cobbled street, then stopped and turned back to look at the shop. From the window, Julia smiled and waved, and Paton let out a laugh of such unrestrained joy that he saw Julia do the same, though she of course could not hear him through the glass.

He wasn't crazy—he was in love.

They know their world is not perfect. Peace, harmony, the freedom to live as one chose—those options did not exist at one time for Paton and Julia. As long as the evil endowed prevailed, they could not be open in their love for one another—for, love is the most delicate weapon at the enemy's disposal.

Love can pierce deeper than the sharpest sword, twist the heart and cause an agony more excruciating than any means of torture. To protect one's love, one must pretend the connection doesn't exist, or at least attempt to hide it from those who can cause harm.

During that time, Paton and Julia fought long and hard to hide their love from the Bloors, to downplay their relationship so that at least those incapable of feeling, if not their friends and family, could not comprehend the depth of their feelings.

It was hard, but they had each other.

Then, everything changed. The Bloors fell, evil was vanquished—Paton and Julia were _free._

Sitting in the back room of the bookshop, Paton drank in the sight of the cozy room and its occupants.

He watched Charlie talking quietly with Lyell and Amy in the corner, observed Maisie and Emma engaged in an animated discussion as they sat on the sofa. A slight smile played around his lips as he watched Henry and James, here on one of their rare visits from the coast, explore the numerous shelves lining Julia's wall.

This was his family.

Every important person in his life was present, except Solange—but she was there in spirit, he knew.

Shifting his gaze, he tilted his head towards the desk in the corner, drinking in the sight of Julia sitting in the wing-backed chair with her masses of hair pinned up to reveal the graceful curve of her neck, her pen tapping her lips as she pondered the phrasing of her next sentence.

Contentment filled Paton to a degree he had never known. _This _was love. _This _was family.

Overwhelmed, he rose from his armchair and crossed into the kitchen, where he leaned on the windowsill and gazed out into the silent street beyond. The sky was rapidly growing dark, the deep navy of night creeping across the horizon and obscuring the low pink clouds that sat heavily in the distance.

Soft footsteps echoed across the kitchen, but Paton remained still, eyes directed skyward.

"Are you all right?" Julia had followed him. Placing a gentle hand on his arm, she looked up into his face, trying to sort through the cloud of emotions she saw playing in his eyes.

"How did I ever come to be this lucky?" Paton asked softly, never taking his eyes from the window. "All my life, I've been denied a normal life, denied the love and family I have always wanted. Yet, now I feel I'm the richest man in the world." He turned his head to look at her, a curious smile playing on his lips. "How did that come to be? I feel as this is a dream, and nothing more."

Julia laughed softly, a joyful sound that rang through the kitchen. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she rested her face against his back. "In that case, she murmured against the fabric of his shirt, "never wake up."


	8. Music and Voice

**Disclaimer: Still not mine, unfortunately.**

So we have made it to the eighth secret...two more, and this charming little story will be done. I aim to have the final two chapters up between now and the end of August (at the very latest), so you won't have to wait too long.

As always, read, enjoy, and review!

* * *

_Secret Eight: His endowment isn't the only reason he went to Bloors._

It's the main reason, of course, but it is not the only one. Paton is always guiltily relieved that most people with an interest in his past are so interested in his unique endowment that they tend to forget to ask him what department he was in during his own tenure at Bloors. Drawn to his power boosting, they put the more mundane aspects of his schooling from their minds without second thought, automatically assigning him the role of talentless but endowed.

Paton is perfectly content with this arrangement; better not to have to explain at all than to muddle through yet another vague half-truth. It's not that he's ashamed of his talent—far from it, in fact. He has simply geared his mindset to that of one who lurks in the wings, allowing others the spotlight in his place.

He shies away from attention, and therefore his natural talent often falls into the shadows, unrecognized by most who know him. He is content to nurture it in his free time, away from any who would attempt to pry. It is a secret he holds close to his heart, and one that only those close to his heart are privy to. It is one of his better-kept secrets, though one that he occasionally wonders why he keeps at all.

For the inquiring mind, Paton's department is far from a mystery. One must simply slip through his cracked door, tiptoe around the scattered piles of books, and muscle open the closet door to see the long blue cape hanging in the back, carefully draped over its old hanger.

However, there are no instruments in Paton's room, nor in his life at all.

He can't play a horn, he produces hideous, duck-like squawks when handed a woodwind, and his single attempt at playing the drums resulted in such a cacophony that his family thought a hurricane was barging through the front door.

No, Paton is not a master of an instrument in the physical sense of the word.

Paton, power-booster that he is, did not go to Bloors simply for his unusual electrical affinity; he also went because of his voice.

Paton Yewbeam, you see, can _sing_.

When he started at Bloors, he didn't even want his classmates to know, preferring to keep his talent strictly within family bounds. When he arrived at school, he was quite prepared to blend seamlessly in with the other endowed and slip into the unobtrusive and expected role of talentless endowed.

Why draw further attention to himself when he was already so conspicuous? Bad enough that the entire school had to switch to gas-powered lamps during his tenure; adding an additional label would be more trouble than it was worth.

However, Paton met an unexpected resistance in the form of his father, for James refused to let his son squander his musical genius.

"You intend to _what?_" he demanded of his son, glaring furiously at the boy who, though only eleve, stood but a scant inch shorter than he.

Paton attempted a meek smile, his shuffling stance a sure indicator of his uneasiness. "Study piano or brass?" he offered tentatively. It was the perfect solution. He would still be in music, so he would have no problem with the theory, but he would perform badly enough on the instruments to be quietly filed away with the other endowed students.

James slowly shook his head, a stubborn scowl fixed resolutely on his face. "Try again," he ordered quietly. His eyes remained dangerously narrowed, his resolve that his son not waste his talent firm. One of the happiest memories he had of his family was of Paton and Solange, his son singing some folk song or another, his voice raised in the pure soprano of youth as Solange danced a lively reel about the room.

The joy in the room had been palpable, and not once in nearly six years had the memory of that day left James mind. He knew that above anything else, his wife would want Paton to pursue his vocal talents. Furrowing his brow, James crossed his arms and gave Paton a grim, resolute smile. "You will be studying voice at Bloors." It was not a request.

It was one of the few times father and son had ever fought, and Paton had never seen James, usually a jovial, easygoing man, so serious. The fight slowly left him, driven by the reason that slowly regained control of his mind. His defiance rapidly streaming away as his pride deflated, leaving him a tall, lanky, defeated form. "Fine," the eleven-year-old muttered, "I'll sing." He scowled. "And, I'll be even more of a freak than I already am."

Shaking his head, James clamped a hand on each of Paton's shoulders. "You have _never_ been a freak, son." His voice was soft and intense, so focused that his desire for Paton to grasp this concept was adamant and virtually tangible. "They're talents," he asserted, leveling Paton's stubborn objection with a scowl before the boy could even begin to raise his voice, "_both_ of them."

Mutinously, Paton shook his head. "Anything that makes people stare is bad," he stated, calm as if he were simply reading from a textbook.

James sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Paton was all but impossible to reason with when he latched onto the self-loathing mindset. "Don't you like to sing, though?" he finally asked.

Hesitantly, as if suspecting some sort of trap, Paton nodded. "I love it," he confided. He thought of the wonderful feeling of nailing a series of notes, of perfecting pronunciation and pitch in order to give the perfect performance, and his eyes lit with a bright glow. "I love it," he repeated softly.

Grinning slightly at his son's lack of sense, James released Paton's shoulders and pulled him into a one-armed embrace. "Well, then, wouldn't you rather spend the next seven years doing something you love rather than something you detest? It seems silly to willingly torment yourself." His face took on a more serious expression. "I know it would make your mother proud," he added.

Paton took on a pained expression, then nodded his consent. He shot his father a grudging look of admiration, smiling wryly as he conceded that James had outmaneuvered him. "I don't see how you always end up being right," he declared, pushing a stubborn hank of black hair out of his eyes and puzzling over his father's mysterious ability to always come out ahead.

Lips quirked in a grin, James wriggled his fingers and adopted what he intended to be a mystical air. "The magic of being a parent," he intoned seriously, then promptly burst out laughing.

Paton, after a minute, joined him.

As time progressed, Paton honed his voice, transitioning less-than-seamlessly from soprano to alto to tenor, and finally to bass.

His deep, rich voice rang throughout practice rooms and, on those rare occasions where he consented to perform, across the stage. However, he performed so seldom that soon after he left Bloors and his mandatory recitals his vocal legacy dissipated into a hazy mist, lurking just beyond the edge of memory.

Only those who had actually heard him sing remembered his talent; all else promptly forgot, and assigned him the label of power-booster.

Ever so slowly, Paton allowed his talent to fade into oblivion, singing only for himself and those closest to him.

There are times, though, when Paton's voice serves as a source of amusement, like a long-forgotten friend who resurfaces at the very moment a bit of levity is needed. Charlie—curious, inquisitive Charlie, with his tendency to unearth the past—was just the sort of person to delve into Paton's vocal past.

"Did all the Yewbeam sisters go to Bloors?" he asked one night as he sat down to a midnight meal of cold chicken and cider with his uncle. The meager light provided by the single candle flickering on the table just allowed him to see Paton quirk an ironic eyebrow.

"Of course," his uncle replied, voice heavily colored with irony. "Where else would they go?"

Though this seemed logical enough, Charlie shrugged. "Even the unendowed ones?" he asked, pursuing the train of thought his mind had currently adopted.

Paton nodded. "Even Grizelda and Lucretia," he asserted. He spooned some peas onto his plate."Why?"

Shaking his head, Charlie gave a funny little grimace and looked across the table at Paton, a look of incredulity spreading across his face. "Well, I just can't imagine them having any sort of _talent," _he confessed. An idea occurred to him. "Or, is it just that the Yewbeams _always _go to Bloors, regardless of talent or endowment?"

Paton popped a piece of chicken in his mouth and chewed slowly to buy himself time to answer. "No, there have been Yewbeams who have not attended Bloors. Unfortunately, your grandmother and great-aunt actually _do _possess a modicum of actual ability—not that that makes up for their atrocious behavior."

"Huh." Charlie could honestly claim that he was surprised. "What can they do?"

Frowning, Paton cast around in his memory for the answer. It had been some time since he had allowed himself to think of Grizelda and Lucretia in any role other than that of interfering harpies. "Art," he said finally, the recollection coming to him at last. "They can both draw."

Charlie mused on this for a while, trying to imagine Grandma Bone and his great-aunts at Bloors. Finding the concept too bizarre to contemplate, he instead turned his attention to the other question he had been pondering.

"Uncle P?"

"Hmmm?" Paton across the table over the rim of his glass.

"What department were _you_ in at Bloors?"

The question had come at last. Paton knew avoiding it would be useless by this point; Charlie knew him far too well to accept some half-baked answer. "I was in music," he finally said.

Charlie beamed. "Just like me and Dad!" he exclaimed.

Paton's smile was laced with sadness as he thought of Lyell. "Yes, just like you and your father."

"What did you do in music?" Charlie asked.

Paton had already prepared himself for the follow-up, and gave a slight shrug. "I sang," he said, noncommittally.

Charlie's eyes widened ever so slightly.

Catching sight of his nephew's overly alert gaze, Paton felt a self-conscious flush creep across his face. "What?" he asked defensively.

Charlie fiddled with the tablecloth. "It's just...they only let real singers in the choir," he said, looking slightly puzzled. "I know because Billy told me he tried to get in just to have an easier class, and they wouldn't let him."

The candle in between them flickered, and finally Paton sighed and put his hands on the table. "Fine," he confessed, "you found me out. I can actually sing." He smiled and spread his arms out wide. "Do with it what you will."

An excited grin spread across Charlie's face. "That is so _cool_, Uncle Paton!" he exclaimed, teeth gleaming in the candlelight.

Paton leveled politely incredulous look across the table. "Is it?" he asked.

"Well, yeah! You're actually _talented_!" Charlie beamed, and Paton couldn't help but return the smile.

They sat for a moment in reflection, until finally Charlie asked, with a curious gleam in his eye, "What kind of stuff do you sing?"

"Almost anything," Paton replied, automatically. And, it was true. He had sung in every sort of ensemble, from a choir to a barbershop quartet to a rock band-not that Charlie ever needed to find out about that last one.

Charlie took a moment to absorb this. "So, you've sung plenty of classical pieces, I guess," he said, looking to his uncle for confirmation. At Paton's nod, he persisted. "And hymns, and foreign stuff, and opera, and all that."

Paton nodded cautiously, wondering in which direction his nephew was taking this. He did grin a bit at the obvious lack of interest Charlie showed in the "hymns, foreign stuff, and opera"; it was exactly the same attitude he had adopted when he had to sing it.

"Have you sung anything, you know…modern?" Charlie asked. This, apparently, was where his questions had been leading.

"Modern?" One dark eyebrow rose.

Grinning broadly, Charlie nodded and leaned forward, looking intently at his uncle. "Yeah!" he asserted enthusiastically. "Like, rock and roll, or something like that!" He watched with interest as his uncle turned an unusual shade of pink.

The question had taken Paton by surprise, so he was caught unaware and without the proper words to deflect Charlie's curiosity. It would be that the one aspect of his vocal career that he wished to keep hidden would be the one that Charlie managed to unearth. Memories of a few ill-begotten teenaged years returned, and he gave a delicate cough.

"There is a slight possibility that I may or may not have been a part of a band," he said, very quickly and very softly, so that Charlie had to strain his ears to catch the words.

Charlie laughed delightedly. "I knew it!" he declared, smacking his fist into his palm.

Paton's other eyebrow rose to join its partner, and he leaned back in his chair. "Planning on alerting the press, are we?" he remarked wryly.

A sheepish smile spread across Charlie's face, and he settled back in his seat. "Sorry, Uncle P," he apologized bashfully. "I just think it's pretty neat!"

In lieu of answering, Paton took a long sip of cider and said nothing.

Undeterred, Charlie persisted. "Hey, do you remember any of your old songs?" he asked.

The ghost of a smile flitted across Paton's face. "There is a possibility," he allowed, eyes glittering with mirth.

"I'd love to hear you sing one sometime," he remarked, his innocent tone belying his devious idea. "Do you think—" He could only work in the beginning of his question before Paton cut him off.

"No, absolutely not."

Charlie's face fell. "But—"

"No."

And that was that.

Paton's vocal abilities are a joke between Charlie and himself, a sort of long-standing not-quite-secret that they keep going. Every now and then, Charlie will slide some rock reference into a conversation, and Paton will coolly deflect it.

Julia's discovery of Paton's talent came under much different circumstances, in the early hours of a cool winter morning. Paton had come over early, far earlier than usual, to pursue a particular point of interest in his research. The hour was such that Julia, after staggering down to the door in her robe to admit him, had returned to bed for a few hours, stifling a yawn behind a hand as she went.

Now, the night was exiting its worst stages of darkness and entering that nebulous realm of half-light, where the sky adopted a pale tinge that served as a few hours forewarning of the sun's eventual arrival.

The shop should have been tranquil, and would have been were it not for the shriek that cut through the silence like a hot knife through butter. Paton felt, rather than heard, Julia scream, and leapt from his chair, every sense on the alert, nerves tingling and eyes blazing.

Disregarding propriety and bashfulness in an instant—what good were they if Julia were in danger—he sprinted up the stairs and flung open the door to her bedroom.

Eyes adjusting to the lack of light in the room, he peered about, searching for any immediate threat; however, nothing seemed to be out of place. Every book sat on its shelf, every paper and article of clothing in place. There was no stranger hovering over the bed, no malicious figure in sight.

There was only Julia, sitting bolt upright, eyes wide open and chest heaving.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Paton demanded, his need to ascertain her wellbeing driving him over the threshold and to the head of her bed.

Julia trembled, shaking like a leaf. Slowly, she nodded, taking a few quivering breaths. "Yes," she said faintly, looking distractedly at the covers. "Yes, I'm fine." Her hands folded the blanket, repeatedly forming creases and then smoothing them out, performing the motion over and over again.

Taking her hand in his, Paton stilled the unconscious motion and took in the appearance of the woman before him: chestnut hair in disarray, tumbling down wildly across her slender neck and back; night shirt mussed and wrinkled; dreadful shivers wracking her body.

Slowly he shook his head. "No you aren't," he murmured, seating himself by her pillows. Gently, he reached over and drew her into his arms, pulling her head to rest against his chest. His hand traveled up to her shoulder, holding her steady in his embrace and cushioning her against his body.

Julia allowed him to do so, sinking into the security of his embrace with a slight sigh and burying her head in his chest. She pillowed her face in his shirt, the cool fabric soothing against her fevered skin.

Paton felt her shoulders shake with silent sobs as she released the emotions stirred up by her nightmare, and drew her more securely into his arms. His face was impassive, but his heart raged with empathy for the woman in his arms.

"You must think me so silly," she said finally, drawing back and running a hand across her eyes. "So upset after a single dream." She made as if to pull out of his arms, embarrassed by her outpouring of emotion.

Paton simply tightened his hold. His dark gaze spoke volumes, crackling with a fury of withheld emotions and words. He knew about nightmares, was no stranger to waking from a disturbed sleep with a scream. He knew fear, and agony, and the dreadful terror that accompanied the night after the visiting phantasms had fled.

And then her head was back against his chest, and he was holding her more tightly than he ever had. Hands running repeatedly through her hair, caressing her, soothing her. "It's okay, dear one," he murmured, over and over again. "It's okay."

Julia wrapped her arms tightly about him, locking them together in a desperate attempt never to let him go. "Paton," she finally murmured, her voice slightly muffled by his shirt, "will you stay with me?" Her voice faltered. "I don't think I'll be able to sleep alone."

Here he sat, holding the person who mattered most to him in his arms, and she needed him. He shifted, swinging his legs up onto the bed and scooting so that he was sitting back against the headboard, Julia curled up at his side. Trailing one hand idly along her cheek, he smoothed the hair out of her face and met her sleepy eyes with a smile. "I shall stay," he said simply, pulling the covers up to her chin.

They sat for a long while, Julia struggling to sleep once more, Paton staving off her nightmares. Ever so softly, Paton began to hum, the rumble of his chest a comforting buzz against Julia's overwrought nerves.

Slowly, the humming shifted into a soft song, the words of which were lost to Julia's ears. Her exhausted brain was just conscious enough to hear the skill in his rich bass, to pick up on the fact that he never missed a pitch or note. His voice rose and fell with the song, carrying the rich melody throughout the room and transporting her away from the world of nightmares that had so plagued her.

For his part, Paton was lost in the song and the moment, holding Julia to him as though afraid to let her go. He let the melody sweep him away, took off and allowed the music to lead him where it would. He could feel Julia growing heavy in his arms, finally called away to the heady embrace of sleep.

"Paton," she sighed, nearly gone, "you never told me you could sing." She smiled softly and buried her head in the crook of his arm. "I love your voice," she murmured. "Will you," she stopped to yawn, "sing for me again?" The effort of conversation proved to be too much, and Julia dropped off to sleep with a gentle sigh.

Releasing the last note of the song, Paton smiled softly and tucked the covers more firmly around her sleeping form. "For you, my dear," he said, looking down at her and trailing a hand along her arm, love burning in his eyes, "I will always sing."

* * *

Doesn't that just merit a giant "Awwwwww"? Sometimes it seems as though I'm on a quest to see how sappy I can be...it should bother me, but I love it =D

Reviews are love! Cheers!


	9. Cold and Guilt

**Disclaimer: It's still not mine.**

Only one more chapter to go, guys! I had intended to have both up by this point, but getting everything ready for college has taken priority over my writing these past few weeks. I went in a bit of a different direction with this chapter-changed the layout/form a bit, made the mood a lot darker, etc. It was fun to do something out of the ordinary!

As always, read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

_Secret Nine: He loathes the cold._

Paton hates how it slices through him, sliding through skin and muscle and bone as though they're naught but air. He despises its icy caresses, the frigid feel of frosty tendrils winding about his limbs. He hates to look out the window and see naught but grey—grey skies, grey ground, grey buildings. To Paton, grey is the color of lifelessness, of hopelessness.

Each year, without fail, winter arrives and seizes the city in its icy grip, laying siege to the streets and skies with its heavy grey clouds, barren landscapes, and crackling, nerve-numbing cold. Unrelenting, it sinks its teeth into the atmosphere, fastening on to three or more long, dreary months, claiming the remnants of the old year and the beginning of the new for its own.

Snow, Paton has nothing against. He loves the sight of the fluffy white flakes floating peacefully to meet the ground, the absolute silence and stillness that steal across the snow-laden surroundings. Indeed, some of his fondest memories are from snowy days long ago, hours spent romping around with James, and later Lyell, in winter's white gift.

When dressed appropriately, Paton feels nothing but fond nostalgia towards the snow.

It is the temperature that brings him to his knees, the bleak, grey days where the thermometer barely rises above freezing—if it does at all—and the icy air makes going outside for any prolonged period of time all but impossible. It is the ferocious wind and the driving, icy sleet, slicing down through the sky with unrestrained ferocity to attack any and all below. It is the arctic air, so cold that it burns his lungs when he breaths. On these days, and the even colder nights that inevitably follow, Paton resigns himself to misery.

Once the holidays have come and gone, December peeling away to reveal the festering, seemingly endless sores of January, February, and occasionally even March, a chill like no other sets into his bones, establishing its presence and declaring its intent to remain until the first vestiges of spring arrive to drive it away.

No matter what he wears, no matter how many layers he piles onto his lean frame, Paton cannot warm himself in these dreary months. The cold cuts through everything, driving through every stitch of clothing, peeling back every woolen layer and blanket to attack him with its icy bite.

His long, lean frame doesn't help, either. Toned by years of running, his body is primarily muscle, skin, and bone—hardly the optimal physique for staving off winter's worst. It is to the point now where he almost fears the cold, so agonized and unhappy it makes him. He dreads every outing, dresses himself in more layers than he ever knew he had, and restricts his outdoor ventures to the point where they're all but nonexistent.

Only true need can drive Paton from the house in winter.

The only time he truly and willingly makes his way outside in the wintertime is to run, for he is a runner at heart and cannot escape its allure, and then he is bundled up in the warmest gear he can acquire. Once he settles into his stride, the cold becomes marginally less unpleasant—an irritating fly that he can swat away, rather than a ravenous wolf gnawing at his bones.

His breath still emerges as cloudy puffs, of course, and every gulp of inhaled air freezes his lungs and sends a dull pain shooting through his chest. Yet, his love of running overpowers his hatred of the cold, and so he finds himself walking out the door far too frequently, running shoes laced up and body stuffed into as many layers as possible.

One such run had him out the door at twilight—not nearly dark enough to suit his nocturnal tendencies, but as close to night as he dare let it get lest the temperature drop even further. His shoes were laced up over double pairs of socks, his legs encased in a thick pair of sweatpants that covered insulated running tights. An assortment of shirts and a sweatshirt protected his torso, his hands were encased in gloves, and his dark hair and ears were carefully covered by a thick cap.

Still, Paton felt the cold the minute he stepped out the door, felt its frontal assault blast him in the face and immediately begin its siege on his body, stripping him of his layers with a feral, calculated intensity. Shivering violently, Paton danced in place on the stairs and looked grimly down the long, barren street.

"I hate the cold," he muttered, finally mustering up the willpower to begin what he knew would be another long, miserably cold run.

Feet drilling a cadence into the pavement, he focused on his breathing, forcing his mind from dwelling on the rapidly decreasing temperature.

Exhale, inhale.

Hot air, cold air.

Cloud of breath, no cloud.

He shook his head, feeling the cold wrap him more securely in its web, constricting his body and stealing every last iota of warmth he possessed. This wasn't working; the temperature continued to drop, and it hadn't been anything close to warm to begin with.

As he neared the center of the city, more and more lights began to flicker on, called out of hiding by the growing dusk. Spying an explosion of neon ahead, Paton ducked into a side alley rather than face the lights head-on, his feet carrying him along the familiar side road. His avoidance of light had caused him to create routes that were off the beaten track, his runs featuring alleys and side streets whose existence eluded most of the city's inhabitants.

Paton knew this particular street by heart. He knew that the cobblestones were uneven all along the left side, so he skirted to the right. He was well aware that the inhabitants of this particular apartment stored their trash in the large dumpster that sat three steps ahead of him. He knew the alleys and back ways like the back of his hand, and expected and anticipated everything.

The one thing he did not expect, as he rounded the corner and picked up his pace to ward of the cold, was the patch of black ice nestled innocuously on the sidewalk.

As soon as his foot hit it, Paton knew he was in trouble. His legs flew out from under him, and for one dizzying, horrifying instant he was airborne, the world turned upside-down and sideways as he struggled midair to catch himself.

His head hit the ground with a dull thud, and Paton's last thought before his eyes hazed over with unconsciousness was on how dark the sky had become, and on the tingling, freezing numbness spreading slowly across his body.

Then his eyes fluttered closed, and for a while he knew no more.

When Paton came to, his first thought was that he was _warm_. Gone was the cold of the growing dark, the freezing, icy tendrils of winter that had permeated his defenses and set up camp in his very being.

His second thought was panic. He didn't know where he was, or what had happened. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the room's warm glow, his surroundings slowly came into focus. He was sprawled out on a long couch that was nestled snugly in the corner of a room whose large window and high ceiling managed to make it appear a lot larger than it actually was.

Paton had never seen it before in his life.

He sat up and promptly winced, his hand flying to his temple in a futile attempt to counter the throbbing pain that flared up with his sudden movement. The room spun briefly, the khaki walls and olive curtains spinning before his eyes in a dizzying whirl of color. He froze, forcing himself to cease all movement until the agony that held him in check eased.

"Unh." Gingerly, Paton rested his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes, willing the pounding in his head to recede. When he thought the risk of upending his earlier meals had receded, he opened his eyes once more and took a more thorough inventory of the area.

Small couch, natural paint theme, mahogany desk in the opposite corner, well-worn journals and volumes stacked along a few tall bookshelves—this was not the sanctum of an ordinary citizen. Whoever owned this house—apartment?—was well-organized and well read. The sky outside the room's single window was dark, and Paton wondered just how long he had been unconscious.

Steps in the hallway alerted Paton to the fact that he was not alone. As they drew nearer, he stiffened, every sense on the alert; who was on the other side of that door? His hand clenched and he waited, straight-backed and wary, for the unknown person to appear.

"Paton Yewbeam." The newcomer's voice was laden with disgust. "I had hoped I'd seen the last of you at Lyell's funeral."

Paton closed his eyes and released the breath he had been holding. "Bartholomew."

Dr. Bloor's father stopped before the couch and stood at parade rest, looking down at the man currently resting on his couch. "You look terrible," he remarked, taking in the bloody lump on Paton's forehead and the dark hair that was plastered across his face, glued there by dried sweat and cold.

Paton managed a hoarse laugh. "Thanks," he said. "I feel it." He looked up at Bartholomew through narrowed eyes, trying to gauge the other man's mood. The two had never been on the best of terms, and Lyell's death had proven to be the catalyst that sparked a number of unpleasant accusations.

Noting Paton's scrutiny, Bartholomew returned his gaze, meeting Paton's eyes until the younger man flinched and looked away. "I was going to leave you there," he said conversationally.

There was the hostility Paton had expected. "Why didn't you?" he asked bitterly. "You'd probably have been dubbed a hero." The dark horse of the Yewbeams, the most passive of the good endowed—Paton knew he had few friends on either side. Bartholomew's presence brought a torrent of memories flashing to the surface—memories that were still too fresh, too painful. Lyell had been dead only three years; it had been three short years since Paton's inaction had resulted in the worst of consequences, since had had, inadvertently or otherwise, killed his best friend.

The older man smiled in cruel satisfaction as he watched the agony flit across his guest's face. "You don't deserve the peace that accompanies death," he said pronounced. A flicker of what might have been regret crossed his face. "Besides, Lyell would never have forgiven me for leaving you out in the road."

Paton accepted this answer silently, stoically accepting that here was another individual who would not lose sleep over his demise. He glanced slowly around the room, his curiosity returning as his pain-laden mind grew sharper. "I thought you had left the city," he finally said.

Bartholomew nodded and strode over to the single window, peering out the curtain to look at the neon-lit city below. It seemed they were in a small apartment not too far from downtown. "I have," he said.

Despite Paton's attempt to remain stoic, his face betrayed his puzzlement. "It doesn't appear to be that way," he remarked.

Bartholomew frowned. "I do not live here," he explained irritably. "This is simply a safe house I have set up for when I need to check up on things in the city." He scowled darkly at Paton. "Lucky for you this happened to by my week to visit."

"Lucky indeed," Paton murmured, staring down at his clasped hands. His mind was a roiling cloud of turmoil. Seeing Bartholomew brought back all of the agony he had been seeking so hard to repress, called up all of the guilt from which he had been running. The last time the two men had spoken, the conversation, such as it was, had ended with Bloor's haunting accusation that Lyell's death was _his _fault, that his failure to act had brought about the death of his best friend.

Paton had believed him. Paton had killed Lyell Bone, or as good as; neither he, nor anyone else, could deny it.

Watching the dark-haired man before him, Bartholomew nodded in satisfaction. He could easily read the mental anguish that was playing across Paton's face. His job was done. "How are you feeling?" he asked gruffly, turning away from the window and giving Paton a cursory glance. "You hit your head pretty hard on the sidewalk—should have a nasty lump for a few days." His expression showed that the concept held some appeal.

Paton gingerly put a hand to his head, feeling the tender skin. "I'll be alright," he said. He sensed that the question had held a hidden indication that it was time to leave. Rising slowly, not wanting to risk a repeat of his earlier dizzy spell, he gathered his bearings and nodded in Bartholomew's direction. "It seems I owe you my thanks," he said, the words jerking from his mouth slowly and painfully.

"You do." Without looking at Paton, Dr. Bloor's father strode to the door and escorted Paton from the room, guiding him through the rest of the small apartment.

When nothing more was said, Paton ran a hand through his hair and gave a light cough. "Well, thank you." The words were soft, but their meaning was clear.

Bartholomew gave a curt nod and opened the door, holding it open so that Paton could step out into the hallway. "You will not see me again," he declared, glaring out from under bushy brows. "I'm leaving the city indefinitely this time—there is nothing good left here."

The certainty with which this declaration was asserted made Paton cringe. He felt like the lowest being on the planet, the warmth of the apartment seeping from his bones and leaving him hollow and open to the frosty advances of guilt. "One day," he said softly, meeting Bartholomew's glowering eyes, "I hope that thought changes."

The older man looked up into Paton's face appraisingly, seeking some quality that yet remained hidden. Finally, he shook his head. "Goodbye, Paton Yewbeam," he said. The door closed with a finite click, and Paton was left standing alone with his thoughts in the hall of the apartment building.

As he made his solitary way down the stairs, his mind churned with memories of Lyell's death and funeral. It had been grey and raining, the sky overcast and the weather frigid, the climate mirroring the emotions of those friends and family present.

Everyone who had come had something nice to say about Lyell, had a beloved memory of the fun-loving, talented young pianist. Amy had been disconsolate, Charlie confused in the manner of an innocent one-year-old. How funny, Paton mused, that the two people who had the most reason to hate him, to blame him for an event that was at least partially his fault, were two of the only people who didn't.

He stepped through the front door of the apartment building and looked out across the darkened street. Everyone else hated him, felt disgust and pity when they looked upon him. Even _he _could not look himself in the eye. Every time he tried, he saw only a weakling, a sniveling coward who had failed to take any action to protect the one man for whom he would do anything, and who would in turn do anything for him.

Paton gave a strangled yell and punched the side of the building, feeling his knuckles split against the cold, hard brick. He pulled his fist away and shook his hand, feeling the warm blood run its sticky course along fingers already numb with pain and cold. He welcomed the pain, drew comfort from the dark lines of red streaking down his hand. They were reminders that he was human, that he was not entirely numb.

Whirling, he punched the wall again with his other fist, relishing the first sharp pain of the impact and the subsequent stinging that slowly faded into numbness. Let the physical pain ease the emotion. Let the blood be his tears.

Turning from the wall, Paton began to walk towards home, his pace slow as his body slipped easily into numbness. Night had long since fallen during Paton's stint of unconsciousness, the temperature plunging well below freezing. Paton's head and hands were bare, his previously warm layers caked with dried sweat. Already his body was wracked with uncontrollable shivers.

The wind whistled through the air, ruffling his hair and sending daggers of cold stabbing into him. He would never be warm again, whether summer arrived or not. Always the guilt would gnaw at him, colder than the most frigid of nights, more painful than any frostbitten digit.

He struggled to keep up his pace, angling his body against the wind to negate the worst of its icy bite. His hands were completely numb now, the stream of blood from his fists trickling unnoticed to stain the sidewalk below. His feet were frozen in his shoes, his arms and legs wracked with shivers that he could not control.

Winter was here to stay, it seemed. It was in the air, whirling about with an ease that bespoke of ownership. It was in the trees, grey and lifeless as they were, and in the very earth itself, leaving the ground brown and barren. It was in him as well, icing over and lingering spark of hope or happiness, extinguishing any dreams of forgiveness or understanding he may have nourished. It seeped into his mind, poisoning his thoughts with its arctic allegations of guilt.

Paton was all alone but for the cold. He reached Number Nine, staggered inside and up the stairs to his room, and sat down heavily on his bed, willing the feeling to return to his frozen body. He slumped forward, his back hunched and his elbows resting on his knees, staring vacantly at the carpeted floor.

Paton loathed the cold. He hated how it could drive a man to the point where he no longer had hope, where he ceased to believe in even the most basic aspects of his identity. Paton hated how the cold could control a man, how once it was given an opening, it would latch on and sink its fangs into his very being, leeching every last bit of hope from him until he was but a hollow shell of his former self.

The cold was here to stay; it had won. He would not change, would stay lurking in the shadows as he had been. There was no point in changing, for as Bartholomew had said, there was nothing good left in the city.

Paton loathed the cold, yet, sitting in his room, numb with grief and guilt and haunted by Bartholomew's accusations, he opened himself to it, bared his mind and his heart and granted it free access—and the cold set it.

* * *

Much more angst-ridden than most of the previous chapters, but I wanted to get away from the redundant fuzzy, feel-good endings that I've been using as my standard lately. Let me know what you think!


	10. Handshakes and Hugs

**Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.**

So, here's a very long chapter for all of you to enjoy! Seeing that it is the final one, I thought it the least I could do. Before I wrap everything up, allow me to say thank you SO much to those of you who have followed this from beginning to end. It was an incredibly fun idea to run with, and I have had a wonderful time coming up with ten secrets worthy of Paton, and of reading all of your responses. Now that my thank-yous have been said, allow me to present the long-awaited final chapter!

As always, read, review, and enjoy!

* * *

_Secret Ten: He's only ever willingly hugged five people in his life._

Paton is not a touchy-feely type of person. He is not a man who automatically shakes anyone's hand upon entering a room, not the individual who feels every conversation must begin with some form of contact. He flinches away from the man who begins every outburst with a clap on the back, lurks on the fringe of every crowd.

Really, he shirks away from nearly all physical contact, preferring to keep his distance—physical _and _emotional—as much as possible. He does not touch, does not use physical interaction to get his point across. He prefers the power of speech—impersonal, distant, but extremely effective.

Everything he says, everything he does, he communicates through words and gestures and expressions. His very being demonstrates what his emotions and actions do not. He doesn't feel that every exciting event merits a hug, or even a handshake. Being that close to someone, opening himself up to that physical intimacy, is simply not part of who Paton is.

Paton had never evolved into a social butterfly like the majority of his peers. He remained in his chrysalis of solitude, comfortably sequestered away from the more specified niceties of socialization.

From an early age, he knew he would never be the one to organize grand get-togethers, never be the one to instigate a meeting between a group of friends—a group that he never really had anyway. He was perfectly content that, while at university, he was the one who was sprawled out on the lawn with a book, or scrunched up at the tiny desk in his dorm while his roommates were out at parties.

He didn't mind. He was simply the type of person who could appreciate silence, who could see the beauty in an afternoon alone with ones thoughts.

Even when his thoughts turned to relationships, as those of all young men are wont to do, he knew he could never have a future with the types of girls his associates flocked to—the attractive and admittedly intelligent socialites, the burgeoning housewives of suburbia, the simpering sweethearts who molded themselves to fit their chosen man's womanly ideal.

He hated that.

He hated seeing couples constantly together, with no time apart, with no boundaries whatsoever. People need space, no matter how close they are; this he believed, and adhered to religiously.

Even during those times where some girl _had_ caught his interest, and he had ventured far enough out of his shell to have something resembling a relationship, he never instigated any contact. _She _was always the one to reach for his hand, the one to peck him on the cheek or pull him into an attempt at a hug.

_He _never instigated anything—he never felt comfortable.

Julia was different.

With Julia, he could walk in the door and pull her into his arms without saying anything, nestle her head beneath his chin and rest his head atop her luxurious mass of hair. They would stand like that for any amount of time, simply holding each other, and be quite content to not say a word.

Julia _understands _him, understands who he has been, who he is—who he will be.

She knows that he is not one for excessive outpourings of emotion or contact—she quite agrees. Being self-sufficient as long as she had, she had developed a sense of independence and identity that she was rather loath to completely abandon.

The Julia Ingledew that Paton met did not need a man glued to her side to make her complete. The Julia Ingledew that Paton loves still does not.

She keeps him teasingly and lovingly at bay, allows him to set the pace for contact and emotion. Were he the type to encourage nearly constant communication, she would have been done with him in an instant. Men like that, she believes, are a threat to women everywhere.

It's one of the reasons that he loves her so dearly.

A month or so after they had reconciled following that disastrous first dinner found Paton at the bookshop late one evening to sort through a new shipment of historical records the shop had received.

"Could you set this book over on the table, Paton?" Julia asked, indicating the furniture in question with a nod of her head.

"Certainly!" Paton took the tome gently in his hands and deposited it on the indicated table. He moved slowly, carefully keeping Julia within his line of sight and capitalizing on every opportunity to study her features. The way the candlelight danced across her flawless face intrigued him, and he longed to draw her to him in an embrace, to hold her to him and tell her just how much she really meant to him.

The cozy little back room was covered with boxes and packing material, the books themselves piled high on every available surface for the pair of bibliophiles to investigate. They were about halfway through the shipment, knee-deep in tomes and all but wading through cardboard. Whatever space was not dominated by books and boxes was covered with candles, and Julia appreciated the candlelight just as much as her counterpart, watching Paton's pale features and dark, intriguing eyes gleam in the fire's glow.

They worked steadily into the early hours of the morning, until finally only one box was left. Julia, head spinning with weariness, took a step toward the final unopened box and tripped, her foot catching suddenly on the leg of the couch. It was a statement to her exhaustion that she did not catch herself before she fell, for the couch leg was one she had stepped around countless times previously.

Now, she seemed to fall in slow motion, heading in a graceful arc for the floor and frozen in shock.

Almost without thinking, Paton stepped in and caught her in his arms, cradling her to him in a secure embrace. He was at her side in an instant and holding her close, they way he had been imagining all night. She fit perfectly in his arms, he noticed idly, his numb mind still scrambling to keep pace with his lightning-quick reaction.

Julia, for her part, was still mentally locked in her plummet to the floor, and had yet to really register her salvation. She remained in Paton's arms long after he saved her from gravity, face pressed into his shoulder as she took deep, steadying breaths and tried to regain her orientation. Distantly, her mind noted how well they seemed to fit together, how _right _she felt in his arms. His grip was comforting, secure—a protective barrier against the world. In his arms, she felt like nothing could ever harm her.

As one, they suddenly realized their position. Instead of releasing Julia, however, Paton simply smiled and pulled her closer, smiling at her startled intake of breath.

"I think I'll have to thank that couch," he said softly, trailing a hand that shook slightly through her brown hair.

Julia made a noise in the back of her throat that could have been a question, or simply could have been a sigh of contentment at the soothing feel of his hand in her hair.

Looking down at her with intense dark eyes, Paton pressed his lips to her forehead. "I've been trying to work up the courage to hug you for weeks, my dear," he confessed.

Laughing lightly, Julia drew him closer and nestled her head under his chin. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour that made her so bold, or perhaps not. Either way, she knew for a fact that she would never feel as comfortable in another set of arms as long as she lived. "Then we shall both have to thank it," she said smiling, and that was that.

Throughout his life, there have been other exceptions to Paton's self-induced solitude, those rare people like Julia whose touch, whose approval and understanding he craves like a draught of cool water on a sweltering day. The only other woman of merit in his life, the first and most important in his life, would be his mother. What boy, or man, for that matter, can deny a mother's loving embrace?

Growing up with four less-than-pleasant sisters gave Paton a secret appreciation for his mother's care and attention—and in that area, and all others as well, Solange did not hold back. From an early age, Paton learned that when Lucretia put his toys on the top shelf, when Venetia snuck into his room and ripped pages from his books, he could find solace in his mother.

Solange never addressed the girls directly, for they took great care to leave no evidence, but her comforting smiles and warm embraces were more than enough for the young Paton. Even then, great shows of emotion left him embarrassed and uncomfortable, and he shied away from seeking comfort and refuge even from his mother.

"Why do they always pick on me?" Paton asked one evening. The six-year old stood in the middle of his room, looking forlornly at the mess strewn across his floor and blinking furiously as he took in the sight of all of his notebooks shredded and scattered across the floor.

On any other person, the slight frown he wore could be interpreted as a neutral expression; on Paton, it was a glaring sign of misery.

"You scare them," Solange said from the doorway. "You're quiet, you rarely let them see what you're thinking, and, first and foremost, you don't obey them." She stepped into the room, her smooth brow wrinkling with disapproval. "Who was it?" she asked softly.

"Venetia," he muttered, swiping a hand across his eyes. "I wouldn't clean her room yesterday, and I hid from her last week when she wanted me to try on this _hideous_—and probably cursed—jacket she made." Stooping, Paton scooped the miscellaneous shreds of paper into his arms. "Why should I listen to them?" he ranted, gathering the paper to him angrily. "They never tell me to do anything _good_."

Solange crossed the room and knelt beside her only son. "Exactly why nothing should change," she said, her arms twitching as if to draw him to her. She kept her distance, though, knowing that any motion on her part to offer comfort would be unwelcome; he had to seek it himself. "I know they make your life difficult, Paton," she said, "but you're doing the best thing you can by standing up to them."

The pain on his face when he looked at her, arms full of the destroyed remnants of some of his most valuable possessions, was enough to break her heart. "Are you sure?" he asked. "It hurts, to always be fighting them. I don't want them to _like _me—I could care less about that—but it would be nice if they would leave me alone."

Solange's eyes were dark with sympathy. "I know, mon petit," she said, "but you know you could never go along with them."

His lip quivered, his mien of maturity slipping, and dropping his load he all but threw himself into her arms, burying his head in her shoulder. "I hate feeling so alone," he said softly.

Solange stiffened, and drew away slightly so that she could meet his eyes. "You're never alone, Paton," she reminded him firmly. "Never. As long as you want us, as long as you need us, you'll always have me, and your father as well."

Paton nodded solemnly and hugged her even more firmly. "I love you," he mumbled into the fabric of her shirt. "I know I don't show it much, but I do."

Holding him close and relishing the trust he placed in her, Solange stroked his hair and smiled. "I know," she said, but her heart swelled to hear him say it nonetheless. She rested her cheek on his head. "I love you as well, Paton."

For James, such shows of emotion were even rarer, and came only after Solange's passing. Before, Paton would smile a certain smile, a secret shared between father and son that only they could understand. They had jokes and games between them, but seldom any contact.

James understood, for he understood his son's reclusive nature, though he himself was far more open. Once Solange was lost, however, and he and Paton were alone, their bond solidified into something that surpassed any normal father and son relationship.

They communicated through looks, a single glance saying far more than a full conversation ever could. One hug, one hand shake or arm across the shoulder spoke volumes between the two. Paton was James' solace, his sole reason for living once his wife was gone, and James was Paton's, his protector and guide to the wearying wiles of the world.

Between them, father and son shared a language that few others could even begin to interpret. A hard week at Bloors ended in a book bag slung under the table and a light sigh, to which James would reply with a steaming, home-cooked meal and a soft, understanding grin. A sleepless battle with nightmares—for either party—would result in breakfast and a smile from the other, and a light clap on the back.

Being men, they weren't prone to deep, emotional conversations; being more emotionally in-tune than most other men ever dreamed of being, they didn't need to.

Paton and James understood each other, understood exactly when each was desperately needed by the other, when comfort and care was necessary and when it was simply unwelcome.

The anniversary of Solange's death was particularly hard from them both, and exactly one year following the disastrous day at Yewbeam castle found them both sitting forlornly at the kitchen table, staring silently out through the great window to the roiling surf beyond.

Fittingly, the day was grey and dreary, the only signs of life the occasional shorebird poking along in the frothy surf, or skimming above the churning waves. The rest of the beach was barren, the sand dirty in the clouded daylight, the rough scrub harsh and protruding on the horizon.

Paton sighed heavily and set down the bowl of soup he had been holding, the spoon clattering against the side as the bowl met the table. He just wasn't hungry. Beside him, James copied his actions, and rested his elbows on the table, cradling his head in his hands.

"How are we going to go on, Paton?" he asked softly. "We try, you and I, don't we? We do alright, most of the time."

Paton nodded bravely, his trembling lip the only indicator that his thoughts were taking a more negative train of thought, that they were following James's rather than the more optimistic route for which James was hoping.

James noticed, and gave a wavering smile. "I'm afraid I'm not helping much with the loneliness," he said apologetically. "It's hard, though," he continued, voice cracking slightly, "when I know I'll never see her again—" He broke off and buried his face in his hands.

It tore at Paton's heart to see his father so broken. "We are doing okay, though, Dad," he said reassuringly, forcing strength into his voice. "We _are_."

He scooted his chair back from the table and stood to move closer to his father, standing a mere inch from James's hunched shoulder. "Knowing that Mom is gone, that she's not coming back…" His voice failed for a moment and he frowned, scrubbing at his eyes. "Well, we both love and miss her," he said finally, "but she'd hate us if we didn't keep living."

He grabbed James's hand, forcing his father to raise his head and look at him. "We'll always miss her, Dad," he said softly, "and she'll always be gone." His grip tightened. "But, she'll always be with us, too, and the least we can do for her is make sure that we're alright, that we're strong." He smiled bravely, trying to appear in charge of himself.

James looked up into his son's pale face for a long moment, marveling at the age and intelligence that stared back at him from those young eyes. "You're right," he said finally, pushing his chair back and rising, shaking his head as if to clear it from a fog. "You're right, Paton."

They looked down at their still-joined hands, and James tightened his grip, the shift saying everything that his voice would not.

Paton broke then, and released James's hand so that he could wrap his arms around his father's waist. "It will be okay, Dad," he said, the lack of conviction in his voice telling James that the reassurance was more for himself than for his father. "It _will_."

Looking down at his son's fever-bright eyes—gleaming with both tears and determination—James nodded firmly and returned Paton's embrace. "I know it will, son," he said. "I know."

With Lyell, relations are a bit more casual, a bit less restricted. As close as Paton and Lyell are, they rarely have any sort of verbal heart-to-heart, for the simple reason each knows the other so well that such a moment is unnecessary. They all but grew up together, and so have a bond that runs deeper than any words or gestures either might make.

They're brothers in everything but parentage, and that makes all the difference when Paton's walls need to come down. As an adult on his own, facing the world head on and alone, Paton has no one but himself. His mother is dead, his father living happily by the sea with Pearl and inner peace.

But Lyell….Lyell was always there when Paton needed a sympathetic ear, a warm smile and a clap on the back and an assurance that things were bound to get better. Likewise, Paton was always there for his friend, guiding him through the twists and turns of life that inevitably followed one of Yewbeam blood.

When Lyell entered Bloors, unendowed in the way that his mother cared about yet endowed in a much more important way, Paton was there to guide him through the nuances of being a student in those hallowed halls. When Lyell began dating Amy Jones, Paton was there to help him sneak around behind his hovering sisters.

Similarly, Lyell dragged Paton out of his shell, insisting his friend "socialize" and "get out of that book-filled room" every now and then. He made Paton be a bit more social than the older man ever intended, but Paton nevertheless found himself enjoying most of the excursions—to an extent, of course.

One moment prominent in the memories of both men was the night of Lyell's engagement to Amy. It was a warm spring evening, and Paton was immersed in a scroll from an ancient Arabian civilization, his cracked window allowing the warm breeze enough room to flit through and ruffle the papers piled on his desk.

Steps thudding on the carpet outside his apartment door alerted him of Lyell's presence, so he had already swiveled in his chair to face the door by the time his friend came bursting into the room.

"I love her," Lyell declared, his hair mussed and a wild gleam in his eye. "I absolutely love her, and I have to tell her—and I can't."

Paton raised an eyebrow and carefully re-rolled the scroll, tucking it into a pocket of his desk. "I'm assuming you mean Amy," he said lightly, careful to keep the teasing smirk from his face. In the love-struck state Lyell was in, he would be unable to tell jest from jab.

Lyell nodded and sank onto the small patch of bed left bare of books. "I have the ring, I have the reservations—for tonight! Tonight, Paton!" He ran a hand feverishly through his hair. "I don't know if I can do it!"

Rising and clearing a space on the bed beside his friend, Paton sat and leveled a long, calm look at Lyell. "Of course you can," he assured, a small grin playing on his face at his friend's sudden insecurity. "She loves you as well—any fool can see that!"

Shaking his head, Lyell looked more helpless than Paton had ever seen him. "I'm just terrified she'll say no; I can't begin to imagine a life without her!"

"So don't," Paton said simply. "Go to dinner, ask her, tell her how you feel—she'll say yes."

Lyell stared at his friend as if seeing him for the first time. "She'll say yes?" he repeated, as if unwilling to believe it. "Will she say yes, Paton?"

Shaking his head at his friend's silliness, Paton grasped Lyell firmly by the shoulders and met the younger man's eyes. "She'll say yes," he repeated firmly, squeezing Lyell's shoulder reassuringly. "I promise."

Later that night, just as Paton was preparing to venture out into the warm midnight air, the door burst open once more to emit a Lyell alight with a maniac, feverish glow. "She said yes!" he exclaimed, dancing in place. "She said yes," he repeated, more softly this time as if unable to believe it. Suddenly he grinned broadly and looked at Paton. "As always, my friend, you were right!"

Paton simply smiled and pulled his friend into an embrace. "Congratulations," he declared, Lyell's exuberance overflowing and pooling into him. "You'll be the best thing that's ever happened to each other."

At that moment in time, it was all that needed to be said.

Charlie was both more difficult and far too easy for Paton to connect to, for the simple reason that he was Lyell's son. Every time the boy met his eyes, every time that messy dark head passed before his line of sight, he saw his best friend resurrected, living in this young, lost child.

Charlie was Paton's guilt given form, a manifestation of everything that he felt he owed Lyell's memory.

He did his best to watch out for the boy, steering him away from the worst harm, deflecting the more dire plots of his sisters. Always, though, he kept his distance, not wanting to risk the boy by becoming too close. The farther Charlie was from the tangled web of the Yewbeams, the safer he would be.

Of course, when Charlie discovered his endowment, everything changed, and Paton found himself slipping slowly into the role of mentor, of guiding light and—dare he think it?—father figure. Charlie became an individual Paton loved for who he was as well as for who his father was.

He took on an independent identity—an identity Paton would sacrifice anything to protect.

These paternal feelings the boy incited left him lost beyond all reason, for who was he to act as Charlie's father? He, the very reason Lyell was lost? He, the worst person of all to act as mentor, was the very person Charlie had latched on to, the one adult in which he placed all of his confidence.

At first, Paton shied away from the attention, retreating back to his shadowy room and doing his best to allow events to unfold without him. But then Charlie kept needing help, kept needing _him_, and Paton remembered what it felt like to be needed. He remembered the surge of pride he felt anytime Charlie demonstrated some bit of knowledge gleaned from him, remembered the burning worry he felt every time the boy ran off and did something foolish.

Charlie forced Paton back into the real world, forced him to _care _once more.

So when Charlie burst into Number 9 late one Saturday afternoon diligently fighting back tears and looking angrier than Paton had seen him in a long time, he simply set down his plate of cold chicken and enveloped the boy in a hug.

He didn't have to ask what was wrong, and Charlie didn't have to tell him. They had each other, and for the moment, that was all they needed.

* * *

C'est voilia! Il est fini!


End file.
